


The Word That You Hear Is Not Mine

by BrighteyedJill



Series: In My Master's House 'Verse [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Case Fic, M/M, Master/Slave, Outdoor Sex, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The standoff with Moriarty results in some changes for the Lords Holmes and their slaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After months, I finally have the conclusion of this series ready! Thanks for your patience over the last... three years (!!) as I've played in this AU. There are five parts (plus an epilogue), and I plan to post one every day or two until they're all up. 
> 
> **Content advisory:** present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, show-level violence and crime
> 
>  **Context:** Part of the In Master’s House universe. It’s helpful to have read other stories in the series, but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning.
> 
>  **Notes:** Thanks to morganstuart and jaune_chat for their constant encouragements, and to redandglenda and izzie7 for their editing/Brit-picking/general fixing. Remaining cock-ups are all mine. Special thanks to the team at sh_britglish for answering my real estate questions!

Previously, on _In My Master’s House_ :  
 _John and Sherlock foiled plans to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador, which not only angered Moriarty, but also Lord Mycroft, who had intended to turn the assassination to his advantage. After learning about Lord Mycroft’s plans, Lestrade asked to resign his position as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave and threw himself into helping Sherlock track down Moriarty, who had kidnapped John. By following a series of puzzles throughout London, Sherlock caught up with Moriarty and his accomplice Colonel Moran in a standoff at the lake on the Holmes estate. John’s quick thinking resulted in Colonel Moran shooting Sherlock and absconding with Moriarty, leaving the brothers Holmes and their slaves to put themselves back together._

* * *

Lestrade double-checked the piece of paper the nurse upstairs had handed him before reassuring himself he wouldn’t mistake anything so simple as a room number. He pushed open the door to reveal a windowless room, no larger than his quarters at the estate. Though it contained three beds, only one was occupied. 

John lay face down, stripped to the waist, with a thick pad of gauze taped neatly across his lower back. Angry abrasions circled both his wrists, and an assortment of bruises and welts—mostly healed—littered his back. Above his right shoulder blade clustered a starburst of scar tissue. 

Lestrade ignored the temptation to look at the chart at the end of the bed. Though he keenly wanted to know what John had been subjected to when he’d been taken, and therefore what kind of criminal they were dealing with, he respected John’s right to tell him on his own terms, if at all. He wasn’t a copper working a case; he was only a concerned fellow slave, maybe even a friend. 

“John.” Lestrade picked up the rickety chair shoved in the corner and moved it up to sit next to John’s bed. “You awake?”

John lifted his head and opened one bleary eye, then the other. “Hullo.” His voice sounded rough and dry, and his movements seemed sluggish. Then he seemed to recognize Lestrade. In an instant, alertness brightened his eyes. “How long have I been out?”

“Twenty-four hours, or thereabouts.”

“Drugs. That explains why my mouth tastes like a dead thing.” John kicked at the sheets until he freed himself enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Have they found them? Moriarty and Moran? Picked up a trail, anything?”

“Nothing.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face, thinking of the increasingly frustrated civility of Wood’s hourly e-mail updates on the search. “They’re good.”

“They’re not invincible.” John untaped his IV, eased it out of his arm, and tossed it aside before glancing around the cell-like room. “Now, what have they done with my clothes?”

“Are you sure you should be up and about?” Lestrade asked with a pointed glance at the bandage on John’s back.

“I’m not the one who got shot.” 

“Not for lack of trying, I imagine.” What little of the story of the standoff with Moriarty he’d gleaned during the helicopter ride to hospital was enough to assure Lestrade that both John and Lord Sherlock were completely cracked. “And thanks. For keeping him alive.”

“Wasn’t a choice, really,” John said. Lestrade might have imagined it, but the pronouncement seemed to surprise John. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs. Private room, far away from the slave wing.” Such spacious accommodations meant Lestrade had managed to keep an eye on Lord Sherlock while avoiding Lord Mycroft. “Surgery went well. He’s out of the woods, they’ve said, but he’s not woken up yet. Imagine he’ll be back on the hunt as soon as he’s conscious. Every Imperial lawman in the territory is on the lookout, but no luck yet.”

“I’d be surprised if they did have.” John snatched the chart from its slot at the foot of his bed and began to read.

“Me too. They’re clever. Clever enough to have fooled me.” Lestrade felt a hot swell of shame to remember it. He’d had Jim—bloody Moriarty—working under him for months and never known.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” John looked up from the chart to give Lestrade a sympathetic half-smile. “They fooled the Holmes brothers, and if they could manage that, what chance did the two of us have?”

“You’re right. Still, I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“I’ll mend. Or be replaced, I suppose.” John craned his neck to look over his shoulder at the bandage. “Have they-?” 

Lestrade shook his head. “Not yet. They’ll wait until you’re healed, make sure there’s no infection before they replace the chip.”

“Decent of them.” With a grimace, John pushed to his feet.

“John, listen.” Lestrade resisted the urge to admonish John to sit down and rest. In years of dealing with the Holmeses, he’d learned to recognize a losing battle. “You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to, but I’d appreciate hearing it. Moriarty and Moran are still out there, and if there’s anything you can remember—it might help us. Help the people hunting them, anyway.”

“There’s not much to tell,” John said, without meeting Lestrade’s eyes. “Kept me tied up. Didn’t tell me anything.”

“Did they hurt you?” Lestrade watched John move with a critical eye, evaluating for injuries, maybe something John had hidden when he’d been admitted. “Did they do anything?”

“No.” John opened the room’s tiny cupboard and from inside snatched a threadbare cotton robe with “Property of London Imperial Hospital” stamped on the back. “Not really.”

“John, you can tell me if something happened.” Lestrade studied John’s closed-off posture, his averted eyes, and gentled his tone. “No one’s going to think less of you because of something those madmen did.”

John fixed him with a considering look. “I bet you were a really good cop.”

The words trigged a lingering ache, but the hurt of Lestrade’s destroyed career didn’t go as deep, anymore. He fixed John with a stern look. “If you don’t want to tell me, you should tell someone.”

“They didn’t hurt me, really. The worst I endured was some insufferable gloating.” John pulled on the robe and tugged the sleeves down over the marks on his wrists. “I suppose they wanted to keep me in good shape to serve as bait.”

“More fool, them.”

“What’s going to happen now?” John braced his hands against the sides of the cupboard. “I just go back to… They were going to kill me for what I did to Moran.”

“Well, you’re not in legal trouble anymore. Not now that we know Moran was posing as a lord.” Heads somewhere were sure to roll for that, Lestrade imagined, but not his, and not John’s. “You won’t be reprimanded for shooting a fugitive slave.”

“Surprisingly, that does not make me feel better.” John turned to frown at Lestrade. “And it won’t always be so simple, if I keep helping him. Look what happened to you.” His eyes slid to Lestrade’s neck. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Lestrade’s hand went to his throat, where the comforting weight of his collar, with its inscribed tag, was conspicuous in its absence. The stand-in collar felt too light. “I resigned my position as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave.”

“Why?”

“That’s between me and Lord Mycroft,” Lestrade said softly. “You understand.”

John rubbed his fingers against a crease in his forehead, as if massaging away a headache. “Strangely enough, I do.”

A nurse in a bright white uniform and matching collar scampered into the room. She glanced between the two of them desperately. “Watson? Which one of you is John Watson?” 

Slowly, John raised his hand. 

The nurse darted forward, grabbed his arm, and pulled him towards the door. “Come quick. Your master’s like to bust ‘is stitches if he don’t get his way.”

John threw a resigned glance over his shoulder as the nurse dragged him out of the room. With a deep sigh, Lestrade hurried after them.  
\--

The panicked nurse only got them out of the slave wing; apparently slave staff weren’t allowed near the noble patients. After that, Lestrade’s special visitor’s badge and deferential politeness carried them past all obstacles. Once on the correct floor, John followed the sound of Sherlock’s ranting down the hallway.

At the doorway, a blue-uniformed guard, one of Lord Mycroft’s staff, barred the way. 

“He’s with me,” Lestrade said. 

The guard stepped aside, but after a quick glance into the room, Lestrade retreated swiftly. “Go on,” he said, clapping John on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up after.”

Before John could inquire, a shout from inside demanded his attention. Sherlock’s voice, slightly slurred, carried above the general cacophony. “Get away! I’m not taking anything else until you let me up!”

John swept into the room, recklessly shoving past a knot of people to see Sherlock swatting at a nurse holding a syringe. He looked pale and a bit haggard, but he’d lost the agonized pallor that accompanied a near-mortal wound. Weak as he looked, he’d somehow mustered the energy to shout at the hospital staff and fend off unwanted procedures with what seemed to be a martial art specifically adapted for the bedridden. 

Pausing just long enough for a deep breath, John let loose with a voice proven to stop soldiers in mid-charge. “Sherlock, do _not_ hit the nurses.”

Sherlock froze. The half-dozen other people in the room stared at John.

Quickly, he tacked on a token, “Sir.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted up and down John’s form, undoubtedly picking up a score of clues about John’s hospital stay, and probably a few things John didn’t know himself. When Sherlock reached out a hand and flexed his fingers, John came to his bedside as if pulled, and let Sherlock grip his fingers. 

“Are you injured?” Sherlock asked. “Rope burns, mild infection at the incision on your back, general undernourishment, what else?”

“I’m not hurt,” John said, squeezing his hand.

“I told you he was fine, Sherlock,” Lord Mycroft spoke up from the corner of the room, well out of range of any tantrum.

“Oh, please.” Sherlock managed a passable sneer, even in his weakened state. “As if you’ve never lied to serve your own ends.”

To John’s surprise, Lord Mycroft frowned deeply. John decided quickly that he’d rather not get involved in whatever battle those two were currently fighting, and turned back to Sherlock. “They told me downstairs you were in danger of bursting your stitches. Have you been terrorizing the staff?”

“If anything, they’ve been terrorizing me. Prodding at me, keeping me confined to bed, drugging me so I can barely _think_ , shooting me full of who knows what.”

“And that’s only in the twenty minutes he’s been awake,” Lord Mycroft drawled.

Ignoring him, John turned and raised an eyebrow at the ashen-faced nurse with the syringe. 

“It’s just an antibiotic booster,” she said meekly. 

“I don’t want it.” Sherlock drew back onto his bed, as if readying for another spate of invalid baritsu. 

“Are you always this childish when you’re injured? Here.” John plucked the syringe from the nurse’s fingers. “Will you take it if I do it?”

“Fine. Only everyone else get out. It’s stifling in here.”

“Erm.” From the back of the crowd of hospital staff, a young man with a clipboard raised a finger. “Lord Holmes, sir, the dose should be administered by a trained medical professional.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Then Dr Watson should be eminently capable.”

“But sir,” the man chuckled, “slaves can’t be doctors.”

Sherlock glared at the young man with such forceful malice that John almost began to feel sorry for the blighter. 

At last, Lord Mycroft broke the silence. “I’m certain an exception can be made in this case for the patient’s comfort. Now, my brother needs to rest.”

The staff filed out, muttering amongst themselves. With one last wide-eyed glance at John, the nurse closed the door behind her.

John fitted the needle to Sherlock’s IV and plunged the contents into Sherlock’s bloodstream. He looked up to find Sherlock examining him intently. 

“Where’s your collar?” Sherlock asked. 

John forced back a smile, remembering his own first question upon waking in captivity. “Moriarty took it off me.”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock growled. 

John squeezed his arm. “Maybe they’ll recover it when they process the scene. Lestrade said the whole Met was on the case.”

“If it’s up to that lot, it’ll never be recovered.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and flung himself against the pillows.

“It hardly matters now,” Lord Mycroft spoke up from his perch, leaning against the windowsill. John had forgotten his presence. 

“The collar may not be an heirloom, but it does have some value,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yes. Of a sentimental nature.”

Sherlock thrust a finger towards the door. “Leave.”

“I’m afraid I need a word with your John.”

“He doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say.” Sherlock clamped a hand over John’s wrist, staking his claim over the rope burns there and sending a dangerous thrill through John’s blood.

“Let the man answer for himself.”

“I really don’t,” John said, and was rewarded by Sherlock’s triumphant grin.

“Nonetheless, I must speak it.” Lord Mycroft stood slowly and approached the bed. “This concerns you as well, Sherlock. It’s about John’s contract.”

Sherlock struggled to a sitting position. “I told you before, Mycroft, if you had your lawyers insert some sort of obscure—“

“No, no, nothing of the sort.” Lord Mycroft offered them a benign smile, a bureaucrat’s smile. “John, I wanted to convey my appreciation of your work these past weeks.”

“I’ve little interest in your appreciation, sir.” John treasured the slight rise in Lord Mycroft’s eyebrow at that pronouncement, but the greater prize was Sherlock’s smug chuckle.

“My brother’s safety is very important to me, and I could not ask for a better steward of his person than yourself.”

“It’s not yours to ask.”

“No. Well.” Lord Mycroft produced a folder of papers from under his arm and held it out to John. “These are for you.”

“What are they?”

Lord Mycroft merely kept his hand extended and his eyes on John until John took the folder. He flipped it open to reveal an official discharge from the Imperial Army: Honourable Discharge, Medical. He brushed the page aside to find a Fulfilment of Debt certificate, marking the Watson family obligation as fully discharged. He held the certificate up to the light, and saw the official embossing on the Imperial seal; this was no forgery.

“What...?” John breathed.

Sherlock snatched the rest of the folder from John’s lifeless fingers and rifled through the papers. “Mycroft, what have you done?”

“Captain John Hamish Watson agreed to serve undercover as a slave in order to assist in the Empire’s operation concerning the Chinese Ambassador. In return for the execution of this hazardous assignment, the Empire agreed to clear the remainder of his family’s obligation. This paperwork verifies that his slave status was merely a convenient disguise for the duration of the case.”

John rubbed his thumb over the Empress’ signature stamped on the bottom right corner of the document that he never thought he’d live to see. His hands did not shake. “I’m free.”

“Yes, John.”

“No.” Sherlock tossed the folder aside and rounded on his brother. “You can’t do this, Mycroft. John is mine.”

“Officially, he was never a slave in the first place, which means you could not have purchased him.” Lord Mycroft settled into a chair in the corner, as calmly as if he were sitting down to tea. “The Empire will reimburse you for the inconvenience.”

“I don’t give a damn about the money. He belongs to _me_!”

“You don’t want me to be free?” John turned to Sherlock, who ignored him in favour of struggling free of his sheets. 

“What are you playing at? I told you before, Mycroft: taking away my toys has never been an effective way to ensure my compliance.”

“I’m not a toy,” John snapped. 

Sherlock did look at him, then, but John saw none of the haughty anger he’d expected. Instead, panic widened Sherlock’s eyes and stopped his breathing. He caught John’s hand in his, shoved the robe’s sleeves up to bare John’s skin, and braceleted John’s wrist with his fingers with surprising gentleness, mindful of the injury this time. “Don’t do this,” he whispered.

“It’s done, Sherlock. It’s settled. And John?” Lord Mycroft nodded to a familiar-looking rucksack beside his chair. “Anthea’s prepared a few things for you.”

John drifted closer, easily breaking the cuff of Sherlock’s grip. Though the rucksack bulged with contents when he picked it up, still the paper in his hand felt heavier. 

“Anthea can connect you with the War Department,” Lord Mycroft went on. “They have a number of services available for—“

“Stop this at once. You’ve no right.” Sherlock’s heart monitor began to beep urgently, and an older nurse hurried into the room. “John!”

“Sir, please lie back.” The nurse sped to Sherlock’s side and caught his flailing hands. “You mustn’t get excited.”

“John, I forbid you to leave.” Sherlock fought against the nurse savagely, though in his weakened state, he clearly had no chance. From the corner, Lord Mycroft regarded John with cool, pale eyes. “Come here,” Sherlock shouted. “Come!”

“Sir, you’ll hurt yourself.” The nurse spared a hard glance for John. “You’re setting him off.”

“I’ll leave, then.” John backed towards the door.

“No you won’t!” Sherlock snarled.

Lord Mycroft strode across the room, retrieved the folder Sherlock had thrown, and followed John to the door. “Congratulations, Dr Watson.” He pressed the folder into John’s hands. “Thank you for your service.”

“John, don’t.” Sherlock threw himself hard against the nurse’s restraining hands. Machines around his bed beeped and buzzed angrily. 

“Sir, please, calm down!”

“Do as she says, Sherlock,” John said. Sherlock paused in his struggle, chest heaving, skin pale and sallow, eyes fixed on John. “Don’t reopen that wound. Not after I went to all the trouble of keeping you held together. ” He turned and marched out of the room. 

A flood of hospital staff flowed in after him, and as he put more distance behind him, John could still hear Sherlock shouting, “Let go. _Unhand_ me. I’m perfectly fine. Perfectly!”  
\--

 

Lestrade tapped the edge of his pen against the desk in his tiny office—his former office. He crumpled the piece of paper he’d been writing on, and tossed it in the bin. Perhaps it made him a coward, to write a note and leave it while Sally and the others were still abed, but he didn’t want to cause more disruption in the household than he already had. The trip back to the estate had made his circumstances blindingly clear.

Lord Mycroft had made a quick exit after Lord Sherlock had moved on from insulting the medical staff to calling his brother every unflattering name he could think of. He hadn’t run out of terms by the time Lord Mycroft bade him a terse farewell and marched out to his waiting car, Lestrade and security entourage in tow. 

The drive back to the estate had been one of the longest car rides of Lestrade’s life. He’d sat staring at his hands, listening intently for any word or movement from his master in the seat beside him. With every swallow, he noticed anew the lightness of his stand-in collar. Morning light had started to paint the horizon pink, heralding a lovely, clear day.

As the car drew up to the gates at the border of the grounds, Lord Mycroft’s mobile chirped.

“Yes?” Lord Mycroft answered. His brisk tone betrayed none of the tiredness Lestrade could read on his face. “I see. No. Hold there, and upgrade surveillance to Grade Three Active. Yes.” Lord Mycroft slipped the mobile back into his jacket pocket and drummed his fingers against the seat.

A week ago, Lestrade might have asked his master about the call; clearly if it had caused Lord Mycroft to fidget, the news must have been upsetting. But now, Lestrade didn’t have the right to pry into his master’s affairs. Or, more properly, he’d never had the right, and had only recently recalled that fact.

“It seems Dr Watson’s given our personnel the slip already,” Lord Mycroft turned away from the window to face Lestrade. “I believe you could have predicted as much.” 

“Yes, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head, properly deferential.

Lord Mycroft looked at Lestrade for a long moment. Lestrade bore it patiently, feeling his master’s eyes on him and resisting the urge to look at him in return. At last, Lord Mycroft spoke: a clipped, decisive command, “You’ll go to London.”

“I—“ Lestrade bit back his initial protest, reminding himself once more not to talk out of turn. “Sir?”

“I have business there that would suit your talents.” Lord Mycroft turned back to the window. “Among other things, I’d like you to keep a weather eye on Dr Watson.”

“I see.” Lestrade risked a look at Lord Mycroft, and took stock of the tension in his posture, the indentations in the seat of the car where his fingers dug into the upholstery. Even if he were punished for it, Lestrade decided, he had to offer his opinion. “John Watson’s a free man, sir. So you told him.”

“Yes, Gregory. He is a free man.” Lord Mycroft’s gaze snapped back to Lestrade, who bowed his head. “I’m not asking you to be a party to anything sinister. Only to make certain that he’s safe, and that he’s getting on well. If he has financial difficulties, I’ve authorized an account to make contributions for his welfare.”

“That’s very generous of you, sir.”

“Gregory…” Lord Mycroft raised his hand, but it froze in mid-air, hovering halfway between them.

“Sir?” Lestrade turned his eyes up to meet Lord Mycroft’s. He only meant to look for a moment, to check his master’s mood, but he found he couldn’t look away. 

The car drew to a halt in front of the main entrance, sending them both rocking back against the seat and breaking the moment. 

Lord Mycroft quickly brushed his hands down his trousers and drew his chin up. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s done.” 

Wood opened the car door for Lord Mycroft. He stepped out and swept into the house without a backward glance. 

Lestrade had gone right to his office, intent on making short work of his business and getting out from underfoot as soon as possible. The words wouldn’t come to him, though. Sally already knew her duty, and would have no trouble running the contingent of personal slaves until Lestrade’s replacement arrived. 

A replacement. Lord Mycroft would have to take on someone else, of course. Whatever fondness Lord Mycroft had harboured for an ill-trained slave past his prime, he would have to maintain a lifestyle proper to his rank. Surely there would be no shortage of slaves eager to take up such a coveted position. Someone else would kneel at Lord Mycroft’s feet and mention offhand observations about his appointments, would laugh with him over an etiquette blunder on the ride home from a party, would listen to him breathe in the dark of the night and wish to lift the cares that weighed on him.

Lestrade found himself grinding the pen into the soft wood of the table top, and made himself stop. He scribbled a note, leaving Sally only the smallest part of what he wanted to say:

_Take as good care of my replacement as you did of me. If you can teach me to dance, you can teach anyone. All the best, G_

He set the note atop a pile of pending reports, where Sally would be sure to see it. As he debated whether or not he should fill out his own transfer of duties form, Anthea bustled in. She wore the same black dress she’d had on yesterday, her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and the dark shadows under her eyes showed she hadn’t slept. 

“Anthea, are you--?”

“Here.” Anthea produced a packet of folded papers and extended them to Lestrade. She’d done exactly the same thing the first time they’d met, only Lestrade had been behind bars, then. Now, however, Anthea’s voice held an edge that hadn’t been present on that previous occasion. “Details of your new assignment. Don’t worry, nothing like the Milverton debacle.”

“This is for the best, Anthea.” He reached out to take the packet, but Anthea held on. 

“Don’t drag this out. I’ll send your things.” She looked Lestrade dead in the eye, giving no attention to the Blackberry that buzzed in her free hand. “If you care about him at all, stay out of his way. He can’t see you after this.”

“Right.” Lestrade wouldn’t be likely to run into his master on the street, but he nodded anyway. He wouldn’t see Lord Mycroft’s face, serene and unguarded in sleep, when he awoke each morning. He wouldn’t hear his master’s polished-smooth voice, conveying volumes in a word, or a sigh, or a silence. He wouldn’t feel Lord Mycroft’s arm around his waist as he drifted off to sleep. “I understand.” He tugged at the papers again, but still Anthea didn’t relent. 

“You’re wrong about him.”

Lestrade released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He shook his head, slowly, and watched Anthea’s eyes narrow. “I don’t think so.”

“Then maybe I’m wrong about you.” Anthea let go of the papers, turned on her heel, and walked off with eyes fixed firmly on her phone.  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

Within hours of leaving the hospital, John found himself sitting on a single bed, made up military-neat, staring at four blank, sand-coloured walls with nothing to do. The bedsit, provided by the War Department’s Transitional Services, might not have been the nicest place he’d laid his head, but it was his alone, and that meant something. John had denied Lord Mycroft’s people the satisfaction of shepherding him around by sneaking out of the hospital, a talent gained through long familiarity with Imperial medical facilities and their staff. The papers he’d been provided with worked like magic, however, cutting through Imperial bureaucracy and paperwork like a bullet through flesh. John had never seen the War Department work so fast. 

That expediency had brought John this far, but it gave him little clue as to what to do next. He pushed to his feet, opened the narrow cupboard, and found it stocked with several drab outfits, courtesy of Transitional Services. When he closed his eyes, he could remember standing in Sherlock’s room, seeing the new clothes his master had bought him. _“The clothes you have don’t suit you. And anyway, I don’t wish to be seen with a slave that looks... frumpy.”_

John shut the cupboard door firmly and looked around for a distraction—any distraction. The rucksack Lord Mycroft had handed him lay slumped by the door. He snagged it by a strap and brought it with him to the bed, where he sat to examine it.

As he set the rucksack on his lap, John noticed a rusty red stain at the bottom corner, clashing with the mottled desert DPM. He turned the bag and ran his thumb across the discoloration. Blood. Old blood, long dried and set in the fabric. Sergeant Ward’s blood, from when John had flung his pack to the ground to begin triage after that roadside bomb in Helmand. This wasn’t just standard-issue Imperial Army equipment; this was the same bag John had emptied out in front of the impassive officials at the intake facility. 

John ripped open the drawstring top to find his dogtags neatly coiled inside a small plastic bag. After setting those aside, he upended the rucksack and dumped the contents onto the duvet: a change of civilian clothes, underclothes, trainers, a packet of letters, and his medical kit, the one that had been on the shelf in his room at the estate. He could tell when he picked it up that it was heavier than it should be. In a moment he had flipped open the top, tripped the hidden lever, and lifted out the tray to reveal the hidden compartment. The Sig felt at home in his hand; he could almost imagine the weapon felt warm to the touch. John checked the safety (on) and slid out the clip. One bullet was missing. 

This had to be his own weapon, the gun he’d used to shoot Colonel Moran. He’d left it on the balcony at the Holmes estate, he was certain. He remembered setting it down on damp stone as the Imperial soldiers had rushed at him. Someone had retrieved this—retrieved all of John’s personal effects. All his possessions appeared just as they had before either of the Holmes lords came into his life. John might have dreamt the whole thing. 

Quickly, he pressed his knuckles to the base of his spine. He gasped at the pain of aggravating the still-healing incision, but it reassured him all the same. He hadn’t imagined what had happened to him. These objects had been carefully collected and returned to him—a peace offering, a warning, a clue?

John picked up the packet of letters, elastic-banded together in a neat stack. The top one bore the address of the hospital in Kandahar in Harry’s messy scrawl. Sherlock’s voice rose up in his memory: _You allowed yourself to be sold into slavery to fulfil your family’s military obligation to the Empire rather than allowing your younger brother to serve. Something about him makes you certain he’d fail in his commission, and end up in slavery himself._ “Sister. Harry’s my sister,” John told the memory. Recalling the disgusted look on Sherlock’s face at his mistake made John smile, but only for a moment. 

John turned the stack of letters upside down then pushed it away. He couldn’t call Harry. She’d cry on the phone. She’d insist that he stay at hers. She’d want to know what had happened to him when he’d been a slave-- _posing_ as a slave. He couldn’t begin to explain. 

John shoved the rucksack aside, only to realize it wasn’t entirely empty. In the zippered compartment at the back, John found one last item: his laptop, stamped with a seal marking it Lord Mycroft’s property. John took only a moment to worry over tracking devices and surveillance equipment before releasing a resigned sigh. In truth, if the Lord of Westminster and points north wanted to monitor a citizen in his territory, he had any number of ways to do so, and John would be none the wiser. He flipped open the laptop. 

Open on the screen was his personal journal, the one he thought he’d hidden so carefully. Of course, Sherlock had had no trouble finding it--John could still hear the silky menace in his voice while reading out John’s observations: _”Oh, you meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way.”_ —but he would have thought Anthea, or whoever had packed for him, would have maintained at least the appearance of privacy.

Next to the text document, another window displayed a web browser, open to a personal blogging site. He recalled the words of the acquirer who’d first brought him to Lord Mycroft’s estate. _“It’s going to take some time to adjust. Writing down everything that happens will honestly help you.”_

John glanced over the pages of text he’d typed out in painstaking hunt-and-peck, sitting in his draughty room in the slave quarters. 

_“Arrogant, imperious, pompous.”_  
“What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.“  
“At least I've got used to him now. Well, I say that, I suspect I'll never really get used to him.”  


Already, the words seemed as if they’d been written by someone else. 

John circled his fingers around the fading rope burn on his left wrist, Moriarty’s marks, where Sherlock had touched him just that morning. All of it was real. All of it had happened to him. And maybe creating some written record of the events would, in some way, help make sense of it all.

John positioned his fingers over the keys and typed out: _The Case of the Wayward Ambassador’s Daughter._  
\--

 

Lestrade double-checked the address before approaching the front door of the terrace on the square. It wouldn’t do for a slave to turn up at the main entrance of one of these houses uninvited; in fact, Lestrade doubted he’d come in the front door of a place like this in years, except at Lord Mycroft’s side. The door of the stately house opened seconds after Lestrade knocked. A young man with neatly combed hair and a plain brown collar stood in the doorway, staring.

“Ah, hello,” Lestrade said. “I was told to report here.”

“Oh.” The boy squinted at Lestrade, then his eyes grew comically wide. “You’re him.”

“Gregory Lestrade,” he said quickly. If the boy had been expecting someone important, Lestrade wanted to correct him straight away. “Hello.” He extended a hand, at which the boy simply stared. 

“Boy, don’t stand there gaping,” came a stern voice from the hall. “Let him in.” A sure hand grasped the door and pulled it open wider, revealing a familiar face: Lestrade’s old mentor, Jasper. He shooed the boy out of the way, and beckoned Lestrade impatiently. “Come along, you’re letting in a chill.”

Jasper led the way down a narrow hallway wallpapered in a fussy filigree pattern. The young man in the collar scurried behind them. When he tripped over his own feet, Jasper shared with Lestrade a resigned shake of his head. He looked different, softer somehow, in a dark blue jumper and slacks instead of the crisp black and white of a personal slave. He’d acquired a few more wrinkles in the months since Lestrade had last seen him, and he moved more slowly than Lestrade remembered. He ushered Lestrade into a small sitting room at the back of the house. 

“Kieran, bring the tea,” he called as he lowered himself into an armchair by the crackling fire. He gestured to Lestrade to sit. “Boy’s a bit rough around the edges, as you can see. Last master was a mite overzealous with the discipline. But he’s coming around.” Jasper leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, a gesture reminiscent of Lord Sherlock. He inclined his head towards Lestrade. “That’s not your collar.” Apparently Jasper had also picked up the Holmes knack of cutting right to the heart of a matter.

“It is now.” Lestrade resisted the urge to put his hand on the collar and feel the unfamiliar texture.

“What did he do?”

“He…?” Lestrade frowned, but Jasper continued to watch him attentively. “It was my choice.”

“I know that, Gregory. I may be old, but I’m not blind.”

The young man—Kieran—scurried in with a tray of tea and biscuits. He set it on the table and turned to Jasper with his head bowed. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Jasper raised an eyebrow at Lestrade. “What did he miss?”

Lestrade looked from Jasper to the boy and back, and received an encouraging nod. “Well, always pour and offer the cup from the left,” he instructed. “Anyone you’ve served before, you should know how they take it, otherwise, serve it black and be prepared to add what they request. Or listen. Often the host will ask the guest how they take their tea. There’s no need to respond, just make the adjustment.” The boy nodded and turned back to fumble with the tea things.

“Gregory, you take milk, if I recall,” Jasper asked with enunciation a casual listener would not have noticed was exaggerated.

“Yes, that’s right.” Lestrade repressed a smile.

The young man offered a cup of milky tea to Jasper, who waved him away. “Guest first, Kieran, always.”

“Sorry, sir.” Kieran bustled over to present to the cup to Lestrade, sloshing a bit onto the saucer. “So sorry.”

“In Lord Mycroft’s service, save apologies for when the company’s gone,” Lestrade advised as he took the cup. “It limits disruption of the conversation.” 

The boy poured Jasper’s tea, served it with passable form, and set a plate of biscuits within reach of them both, all without making eye contact. He made one surreptitious check to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything else, then slunk towards the door.

“Kieran,” Jasper called. The boy froze, then turned slowly, head hung and shoulders hunched. “Better.” 

The boy nodded, and Lestrade could make out the suggestion of a smile on his lips before he bolted from the room. 

Jasper sipped his tea. “You could hardly keep from tripping over your feet when you were first learning to serve.”

“I know a few things, now.” Lestrade thought, briefly, of all the exquisite, impeccably trained slaves at Lord Mycroft’s banquet, about the prince’s beautiful pair of twins, who moved in unison with perfect grace. “I’m still no paragon.”

“Still, the master’s personal slave is a position of some esteem.” Jasper nodded towards the door. “The young ones will look up to you.”

“I’m not the best role model, Jasper. Especially not now.”

“Tell me.” Jasper set aside his cup. “What did he do?”

“It’s his right to do as he likes,” Lestrade muttered into his tea.

“Yes. And his to live with the consequences. I imagine he’s regretting his actions, now.”

“I doubt that.” Lestrade considered his master’s calculated explanation of his behaviour, his persistent silence on the journey back from the hospital, and his last, perfunctory orders. “He’d do the same again, if given half a chance.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Not me.” Lestrade closed his eyes and saw faces: John Watson blindfolded and bound, two Imperial guards dead on the basement floor, Soo Lin pale and bled out. “Jasper, people are dead.”

“People die every day, Gregory. Do you expect Lord Mycroft to mourn them all?”

“No. I understand his responsibilities to the Empire.” As a policeman—former policeman—Lestrade understood clearly the importance of separating oneself from tragic events. And just as clearly, he knew these latest events should have been impossible for any person involved to view coldly and impassively. “This was… personal.”

“And Lord Mycroft isn’t meant to want anything for himself.”

“No, of course he is. That isn’t…” Lestrade bit back anything else he might have said. He had no right to on his master’s motives. All he could know for sure was his own mind. “He’s always led me to believe I have some degree of choice in serving him.”

“Yes,” Jasper prompted.

“That makes me responsible, Jasper.”

“Don’t get above yourself, my boy. You’re still a slave.”

Lestrade couldn’t prevent a huff of exhausted laughter at Jasper’s exasperated tone. “Have you met John Watson?”

“Lord Sherlock’s young man? I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He could have died.” Lestrade stared into his tea, watching ripples spread as his hand shook. “Lord Mycroft didn’t think it was much of a risk, but he doesn’t understand these things, doesn’t know how helpless…”

Jasper inclined his head, a tacit agreement.

“Not for the good of the Empire, but for his own personal gain.” Lestrade gritted his teeth even now, recalling Lord Mycroft’s closed expression when Lestrade had questioned him about his plans. “I can’t… I can’t.”

“You can’t be responsible? Well, it’s a good job you’re not, then.”

“Aren’t I? Lord Mycroft prioritized my safety over John’s, and—“

“Of course he did,” Jasper cut in. “He may value John for his influence over Lord Sherlock, but in the end, he’s only another man’s slave. How many people do you suppose Lord Mycroft has room for at the peak of his affections?”

“My life is no more valuable than anyone else’s,” Lestrade insisted.

“It is to him, Gregory. You should know that by now.” Jasper retrieved his cup and saucer, and commenced stirring his tea. “And if Lord Mycroft must needs choose, he will of course prefer those he loves to others. Any man would.”

“Even if you’re right, it’s not so simple.” Lestrade hadn’t forgotten his master’s stories of moving troop markers on his father’s maps as other children moved toy soldiers. “Not every man has Lord Mycroft’s powers,” Lestrade pointed out. 

“Nor his burdens, Gregory, remember that.”

“No.” Lestrade conceded. He hadn’t forgotten, either, how wrecked his master had been, telling Lestrade that story about the map markers, brooding over some unknown but difficult decision. He’d pleaded for Lestrade’s reassurance, and Lestrade had given it. He wondered, if he’d known then what he knew now, if he would do the same again. 

Jasper watched attentively, seemingly content to let Lestrade consider the matter on his own. 

“I’ve made my decision. I don’t want to argue, Jasper.” Lestrade drained his tea, though it burned his throat. “I think it’s best if I stay out of his way. Anthea suggested I avoid drawing his attention.”

“Did she? Well, if you wanted to mope in obscurity, you’ll be disappointed.” Jasper set down his cup and pushed to his feet, leaning heavily on the chair. “I don’t suffer idle hands in this house, young man.”

“No, I imagine not.” Lestrade stood, too. “What is it you do here?”

“Come along. I’ll show you.”  
\--

 

John saw collars everywhere he went. A woman pushing a pram along the embankment. A man repairing the turnstile at Blackfriars station. The boy picking up an order of three double-shot lattes and two baguettes at Pret a Manger. He’d _seen_ slaves, of course, when he’d been a free man. He’d never been one of those citizens who refused to acknowledge slaves out of some misguided fear of shame by association. But as he walked London, reacquainting himself with a city that seemed to have shrunk in his absence, he recognized collared men and women in a way he never had before. He saw pieces of his own habits under every collar.

At first, John concentrated on unlearning behaviours that had become automatic: keeping his eyes lowered when he spoke, stepping aside when someone crossed his path, looking up when someone called “boy.”

There were Sherlock-specific behaviours to unlearn as well. Hurrying to catch up every time he caught sight of a dark-haired figure in a long coat. Relaxing into a stupor when he heard a violin played in the Underground. Obsessively observing everything around him in the event that his master asked about it and it proved relevant to the case. 

At least the habit of observation did come in handy occasionally. John had worked his way through writing up the first several days of his service to Lord Sherlock, posting sections to his blog as he finished them. Of course, he glossed over some bits: anything that might be a matter of Imperial security, and most things of a… personal nature.

John’s unpractised typing made the write-ups rather slow going. He got stuck on describing his day out shooting with Lord Wilkes and Colonel Moran. After typing “wanker” twenty times in a row and deleting it, he decided a break was in order. 

He pulled on his jacket, tucked the Sig into the back of his waistband, and went out for a walk. He found himself outside Waterloo Station before his mind caught up with his feet. This was where Sherlock had gone, that day, after he’d loaned John out. He’d never explained why, of course, just come back with his information and a few scraps of evidence John had dutifully classified in his wall collage: a packet of seeds, a lonely hearts ad, and a receipt from Costa Coffee. 

“Excuse me,” John said to the barista at Waterloo’s only Costa. The girl looked about fourteen, and had several piercings in each ear, but no collar. “This is going to sound mad, I know. A man came in here, a week or so back, tall bloke, black hair, great bloody coat with the collar turned up--”

“You mean Sherlock?” she asked, leaning over the counter. 

“…Yes,” John said slowly. 

The barista lowered her voice to conspiratorial levels. “He comes in sometimes. Not as much, recently, but he’s hard to miss, isn’t he.”

“Yes, he is.” John glanced around the compact shop, but had trouble picturing Sherlock here, placing an order. He seemed at home in the grand environs of the Holmes estate, but would surely be out of place in such mundane surroundings as these. Unlike John himself, who hardly merited a glance from the other customers. “So he comes around often?”

“Depends.” The girl shrugged. “He brings food to Old Joe and his mates.”

“Right. Yeah.” John recalled the receipt. “Six plain croissants and a black coffee.”

“Coffee would’a been for Joe, then. Sherlock always takes his with sugar.” She leaned further across the counter and winked at John. “He likes sugar.”

“Right.” John cleared this throat. “Do you know where I could find Joe?”

“He’s usually around the station, or down by the bridge. Big guy, has a red parka with fuzzy trim on. Medium height. Well, taller than you.” She handed John his coffee. “What you looking for, anyway?”

“I actually don’t know.” John shook his head, realizing how mad this all must sound. “Just… satisfying my curiosity.”

John walked through the dwindling crowd of late-evening commuters, but saw no red parka. He took the walkway over York Road and down the way, glancing between skips to look for any homeless who might be keeping out of the wind. He made it nearly to the cinema when he noticed his left hand had begun to shake. He tossed his coffee into a bin and stuffed his hand into his jacket pocket. “This is mental.”

Here he was, wandering around at night in the cold looking for a homeless man—for what? To verify that Lord Sherlock had come to see an informant when he might have been at the estate, defending his slave from assault? To drive home the fact that Sherlock Holmes was a selfish bastard? To connect with someone else who might understand what Sherlock was like, the mad wanker?

John had zipped up his coat and started for the stairs when he heard the echo of a shout bounce off the concrete tunnel to his left. He stopped to listen, and made out two voices that seemed to be raised in argument. John turned, slowly, and marched down the tunnel towards the sounds. A few steps brought him in sight of the source of the commotion: a short man in a black jacket shoving a man in a red parka against the wall. 

“This means things look very bad for you.” The short man had some sort of Eastern Empire accent. “So tell me what you know.”

“Sure, I can tell you a million ways to go fuck yerself.” The parka-clad man grunted as a dull thud announced the delivery of a punch to his gut. 

John’s feet carried him out of hiding without any conscious input. “Hello. ‘Scuse me.” John stepped forwards, holding his hands out. “Would one of you happen to be Old Joe?”

“Who is this fucker?” The short man shook his captive by the shoulders. “I told you, you talk to anyone, I kill you.”

“Sorry, sorry, no, I was just passing through.” John took another step closer.

“Then pass back the way you came, mister.”

“It’s just, I heard we have a friend in common.” Another step. Almost within striking distance. “Sherlock Holmes—“

Before the last syllable of the name crossed John’s lips, the man had released Old Joe, drawn a gun from his pocket, and fired. 

“Bloody--!” John dived for the ground, covering his head. His heart rattled against his chest, and his ears strained to hear the CO’s orders: an all clear or a take cover. But when John gulped in a breath, he remembered where he was. Not a war zone after all, not really. London. 

By the time John got to his feet, Old Joe had slumped against the wall, and the sound of running footsteps announced his assailant’s retreat. John dashed over to Joe and propped him up. “Are you hurt?”

Joe patted down his head and chest, then laughed a throaty laugh. “No!”

“Are you sure?” John ran his hands under the parka, looking for bleeding.

Joe squinted at him, then recognition seemed to dawn. “Jesus, you’re that doctor bloke, ain’t you?”

Satisfied that Joe didn’t have any life-threatening injuries, John started off in the direction the other man had gone. Over his shoulder, he called, “Stay here!”

John raced down the tunnel, following the sounds of flight that led up the stairs and onto the street. He paused at the corner, squinting into the dark. To his surprise, Old Joe came wheezing up behind him, and pointed south. “Over the wall, then. Shortcut.”

John scrambled over the low wall just in time to collide with the man as he raced down some steps. The baddie fell with a startled cry. The man’s gun slid across the pavement, and in a moment John had a knee in the man’s back and his hands held fast. He looked up with a breathless laugh, expecting to see Sherlock towering over him with the light of the chase in his eyes, but there was only Old Joe, eying John with what might have been suspicious respect. 

The police constable who came racing up a minute later seemed to know Old Joe enough that his gruff, “Good Samaritan” deterred her from giving John a pat down before taking his statement, a courtesy for which John and his illegal firearm were immeasurably grateful. 

While Constable Barrett questioned the shooter, Joe slung his arm around John. 

“I appreciate you coming along when you did, young man. Sherlock Holmes takes care of his own, he does.”

“Yes.” John declined to mention he hadn’t consulted his former master about this little outing. He gestured to the man being hustled into the back of a panda car by the exasperated PC. “Any idea what he wanted?”

“Asking me how I know what I know, and whether I told anyone anything. As if it’s a crime, being observant. Well, I’m a free man now, I tells him. Done me time, now I’m a citizen again, decide myself what I know and who I tells it to.”

“Sounds a fair shake.” John looked at the man with new respect. “He say who he worked for?” 

“No. But it’s the railways I told Lord Sherlock about last time, so it’ll have something to do with that, I’ll pledge.”

“Was this, what, a week ago?”

“Thereabouts. I don’t text. Never liked phones. So I place a little ad when I’ve got summat for him. Very clever, I am.”

“Railways.” John dimly recalled something Sherlock had said about the slaves of the Yellow Dragon Circus being transported by rail. There’d been some connection to Soo Lin that had led to Sherlock deciding that a robbery was going to take place. If Old Joe’s information had helped Sherlock come to that conclusion, the man that attacked him might be connected to Moriarty’s network somehow. John sidled up to PC Barrett, who was scribbling notes onto a pad. “Excuse me, Constable. Listen, I know this is going to sound, er, unusual, but is there any way I could look at this man’s feet?”

Barrett squinted at John, but at least she didn’t laugh in his face. “You’re in with Holmeses’ lot, aren’t you.”

“I suppose I am.” John wouldn’t have put it that way himself, but he assumed if it hadn’t been for Sherlock, he wouldn’t be here, rescuing homeless blokes from crazed gunmen on a Wednesday night.

She turned to Joe. “Well?”

“He is.” Old Joe clapped John hard on the back, making him stumble. “And he’s a medical doctor.”

“Oh, very fine. “ Barrett said with feigned amazement. “But I can’t go around abusing prisoners on Sherlock Holmes’ say-so, Joe.”

“No abuse, I promise,” John put in. “I’m just looking for a tattoo.”

“He did just deliver a gift-wrapped criminal, love.” Old Joe offered up a toothless but charming smile.

“Flippin’ hell.” Barrett heaved the sign of the long-suffering that John knew well, and opened the car door to haul out her suspect. “Alright, you.”

Barrett held the struggling man against the panda while John prised off his right boot and sock, and Old Joe offered helpful commentary such as “Take care ‘e don’t kick your teeth in!”

At last John held the man steady enough to see man’s heel, where a dark tattoo stood out against the pale skin: a circle with a black lotus enclosed. “That’s it.”

“Blimey, what is that?” Barrett asked, craning her neck for a view.

“Symbol of a smuggling gang. The Black Lotus Tong Brotherhood.”

“You get more interesting by the moment, my friend,” Barrett told the criminal. “Right, let’s get you down to the Yard.”

“Sorry for the extra hassle,” John said after she’d closed the car door and Old Joe had commenced pulling faces at his assailant through the window.

“S’alright. I appreciate your civic mindedness.” Her generous smile left attractive crinkles around her eyes. Under her cap, her neatly braided dark hair was decidedly not a mess of unruly, black curls.

“Listen,” John said quickly, before his courage could desert him. “Maybe two absurd requests is pushing my luck, but would you like to go to dinner?”

“Sorry, love. Married.” She held up her left hand, which indeed had a ring on. “Too bad, you seem like a nice bloke. Foot fetish notwithstanding.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You know, I do have a friend, though. Teacher. Might be your type.” She drew a card from her pocket and handed it over. “Here’s my info. I’m going to go back to the Yard, run your name to make sure you’re not a psychopath, then if you call, I can give her your number, yeah?”

“That’s… Thanks,” John said. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like, the fluttery thrill of a successful pull. Or potentially successful pull, in this case. 

“Evening, then.” Constable Barrett shook John’s hand, then took her leave. 

When John turned around, he found Old Joe sporting a wide, knowing grin. “Oi, shut up you,” he said, and Joe laughed until John joined in. When their giggles had faded, John asked. “Are you really alright? It looked like he got some good shots in.”

Old Joe tested his ribs with his hands, then shook his head. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Well.” John shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. He found himself reluctant to head home for the evening and abandon this miniature battlefield that felt much more familiar than his quiet bedsit. “Looks like I’m free for supper. Would you—“

“Dr Watson?” a voice interrupted from behind them.

Old Joe clapped John on the shoulder. “Looks like you’ve got company. I’ll see you around, Doctor.” He trundled off towards the station. 

John turned to examine the newcomer, standing a respectful distance away in the shadow of the bridge, wearing a short trench coat and a collar. When he stepped into the glow of the streetlamp, John recognized him immediately. “Lestrade! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Lord Mycroft asked me to keep an eye on you. When your name came up on the police radio—“

“Yeah, I can imagine.” John chuckled, then realized Lestrade hadn’t done the same. In fact, he seemed to be examining his shoes. “Hey, Greg, you can look at me.”

Lestrade raised his eyes to the vicinity of John’s chest, and tugged at his collar. “It’s not really proper.”

John grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders and ducked until he could look him in the face. “I’m the same man I was last week. I’ve enough gone strange in my life without…” He rubbed his forehead, where he could feel a headache building. “Could we not. Please.” 

“Right.” Lestrade gave John a decisive nod, then gestured in the direction of the departed police car. “You found trouble quickly.”

“The man had a black lotus tattoo on his heel.” John wished he’d thought to take a photo before remembering that he couldn’t show it to Sherlock anyway.

“Is that important?” 

“Part of Sherlock’s—Lord Sherlock’s investigation. Some connection to the circus performers, maybe to how they got into the country.”

“Of course,” Lestrade sighed. “Nice of Lord Sherlock to share the important findings from his investigation.”

It was on the tip of John’s tongue to ask Lestrade if he’d seen Sherlock, ask how he was, but John bit back his questions. He had no right to pry into Sherlock’s private life, no more than any other citizen. “Anyway. Soo Lin Yao had the same tattoo. There’s some connection there, got to be. Are you helping unravel all that mess?”

“Not really. But I’ll pass it along. Lord Mycroft’s people will find out where he came from, assess any further threat.”

“Aren’t you one of Lord Mycroft’s people?” John asked.

Lestrade shook his head and looked out over the river. “Not the way I used to be.”

“Greg. Can we…” John blew out a breath. “I don’t know. Can we have dinner? Are you allowed?”

“I have to ask.” Lestrade rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, against his collar. “They don’t keep me locked up, but my time’s not my own. You know.”

“I do.” The novelty of John’s ability to go where he wanted when he wanted was beginning to wane, but he certainly understood Lestrade’s point. “Lunch, tomorrow? Or tea? I’d like to talk. You look like hell.”

That wrested a smile from Lestrade, at least. “Thanks.”

“If I need to do anything—make a phone call, fill out a requisition form, file a formal—“

“Go on.” Lestrade waved him away. “Just get back home in one piece. I don’t need another emergency call tonight.”  
\--


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade pushed open the door to his room and flipped on a lamp, which threw warm light into the evening’s gathering shadows. He could see his breath in the room’s chill air. “Bloody heater.” He strode over to give it a good kick, and noticed the curtains waving gently in the draught from the open window.

“You’ve seen him.”

“Bleedin’—“ Lestrade whirled around to see Lord Sherlock looming in the corner with coat collar up and fingers steepled. “How did you get in here? Sir.”

“Child’s play.” Lord Sherlock waved a bored hand. Lestrade took note of the plastic medical band around his wrist. 

“How did you get out of the hospital?”

“Have you seen him?” Lord Sherlock crowded into Lestrade’s space.

“John, you mean.” At Lord Sherlock’s dark look, Lestrade shook his head. “I don’t just run around socializing. I do have duties, you know.”

“Make-work.” Lord Sherlock leaned over Lestrade’s small desk, picked up a stack of papers, and shuffled through them. “Something Mycroft invented to keep you close until you come to your senses.”

“My senses are perfectly fine.” Lestrade rescued his papers from Lord Sherlock’s grip.

“Nnnno they’re not,” Lord Sherlock said, drawing out the n and snapping out the rest of the statement with gleeful finality. He turned to Lestrade’s cupboard and began digging through the contents. “Now, tell me what you know of John’s whereabouts.” 

“It’s none of your business, sir. If he wanted you to know, he’d have told you.” Lestrade snatched a shirt back from Lord Sherlock. “What exactly am I meant to be coming to my sense about?”

“Your entanglement with my brother, obviously. No, nothing.” Lord Sherlock spun to face Lestrade, then shoved his hands into Lestrade’s jacket, rifling through his pockets.

“Oi!”

“John must have contacted you, or Anthea did. A phone number, an address?”

“I’m not helping you stalk him. John deserves his privacy. I think he’s earned a little consideration.” Lestrade danced back out of the range of Lord Sherlock’s questing hands, though he took care not to offer any outright resistance to his better. “And I’m not entangled with your brother. I’m his property. It’s simple enough.”

“Nope.” Lord Sherlock widened his eyes along with his vowels. “Come on, you must have written it down somewhere. Your memory for numbers is atrocious.” He swirled away towards the bureau to paw through the detritus on top, but snapped back and pointed to Lestrade. “Unless you were already familiar with the place of your rendezvous.” 

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, but Lord Sherlock rolled right over him. 

“He wouldn’t have invited you to his flat. On his Army pension it can’t be a very hospitable place. A bedsit, maybe a flatshare at a stretch. No, neutral territory. Somewhere with which you’re familiar, where you have been before, probably more than once.” Lord Sherlock began to pace, which, in Lestrade’s experience, boded well for the progress of deductions, if not for Lestrade’s personal interests. “Not somewhere Mycroft’s taken you, as you’re avoiding him—delaying the inevitable—so someplace you know from before your enslavement. Could be near the Yard, but you wouldn’t want to risk running into any old colleagues. Near a former residence then, possibly in Hoxton where you lived when you were married, but many of the establishments there have come under new management in the past years—gentrification—and so would be out of his price range. The alternative is somewhere near your bachelor digs in Lambeth. The recent sighting of John at Waterloo makes this the more likely choice. The War Department has a block of transitional housing on Morley Street, handy to St. Thomas’ Hospital.”

Lestrade tried again to interrupt, but failed to break through the momentum of Lord Sherlock’s deductions enough to be noticed.

“John would have suggested a venue where your slave status wouldn’t attract attention from the clientele. Daytime meeting—he’s security conscious after the recent kidnapping—so probably not a pub.” Lord Sherlock’s fingers flew across his mobile. “Café or coffee shop, then. Sixteen within easy distance of the tube, which you took, judging by the state of your shoes, but only one with a white cat mentioned in reviews, obviously present, according to the hairs on your trousers. The Persian Café.” He held up the screen to display the Yelp review. “Reasonable prices and excellent hummus, which I know John appreciates. I’m sure there’s plenty of data there to point me in the right direction. Do you have anything else to add?”

“Not really, no.” Lestrade’s fond smile must have been a poor substitute for John’s more vocal adoration, because Lord Sherlock’s face crumpled in disgust. 

“Fine, I’ll work it out on my own. I’ve done most of it already.” 

As Lord Sherlock swept towards the door, Lestrade called after him, “What’s inevitable? You said my avoiding Lord Mycroft was only delaying the inevitable. What did you mean?”

“If you won’t assist me with my case, I see no reason to help you with yours.” Lord Sherlock swanned out of the room and slammed the door behind him.   
\--

A sudden clatter of dishes made John start in his chair. The head waiter snapped at his clumsy staff, then the commotion faded into the general chatter of the restaurant. John wiped his hands along his thighs and let out a long, slow breath. 

“John?” Jeanette peered at him over her menu. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yes.” John closed his menu and set it aside. “Bit distracted.”

“You know, Kavya doesn’t usually set me up with men she meets at crime scenes. She must have thought you merited an exception.” Jeanette laid her menu on the table and picked up her glass of wine, something deep and red that John didn’t remember ordering. “You go on a lot of first dates?”

“No. Not a lot of opportunity to date in the Army.” And John thought it best not to mention Sherlock at all, even if their interactions could hardly have been classed as dates. “Do I seem rusty?”

“Maybe a little. It’s alright.” She patted his hand where it lay on the table. “I’ve done this loads. Small talk, light flirtation, perhaps some witty banter. Stay away from complaining about exes, trying to convert me to your religion, or eating anything with garlic, and we’re on track for a goodnight kiss.”

“Right, then.” A nervous chuckled escaped John’s control. “You’re the expert.”

Jeanette gave his hand a squeeze, then withdrew to pick up her wine again. When her long fingers wrapped around the crystal stem, John saw instead Sherlock’s graceful hands grasping his glass at the banquet, sliding across the strings of his violin, pressing bruises into John’s skin.

“Sir?” The waiter leaned in to John. “What will you have?”

John shunted memories of Sherlock to the back of his mind and tried to take Jeanette’s advice. No talking about exes—if Sherlock even qualified as an ex—and, to be safe, no thinking about them, either. 

Once the waiter had taken their order, John gave Jeanette his warmest smile—the one that had served him well on three continents. “Sorry,” he said. “What were you saying about a Christmas party?”

Jeanette told stories with charm and humour. She spoke in animated tones, punctuated her punch lines with fluent hand gestures, and once illustrated a point by rearranging the cutlery, but John could not have told what they discussed for all the gold in the Southern African Republic. He managed to provide enough monosyllabic and nonverbal responses to keep Jeanette talking, but the bulk of his attention was occupied reviewing his first encounter with Sherlock and evaluating whether or not it counted as a date. Sherlock had picked him out of a crowd, yes, and John had accepted his offer of his own free will. There’d been a getting-to-know-you Q&A, yes, though all the questions had been Sherlock’s. And the evening had ended in mind-blowing sex, yes. But most first dates didn’t involve being stripped naked and beaten with a riding crop in front of a group of co-workers. That was second-date material, at least, John concluded, though he suspected his thought process might be tipping over from logic into mild hysteria.

“—my headmaster, so I’ll never eat plaice again. Am I boring you?”

John blinked at Jeanette, then scrubbed a hand down his face. “No, sorry.”

“That’s some of my best material.” She sat back in her chair and regarded him with raised eyebrows. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, but then the prospect of another hour, even another minute sitting here loomed over John, and the weight of it crushed the façade of his calm. “Listen, Jeanette, I’m really sorry, but I can’t—I’m sorry.”

The chair scraped across the floor as John pushed it back, cutting through the bright din of the full restaurant. John stumbled away from the table, made it down the back hallway and pushed through the emergency exit to emerge on a darkened, blessedly deserted mews. He propped himself up against the rough brick building and gulped in cold night air.

“You’re fine,” John told himself, fiercely. He had every right to be here, going where he liked, talking to whom he liked. He pushed off the wall, squared his shoulders and forced his breath into a more sedate rhythm. His feet carried him to the restaurant’s back door but wouldn’t go a step further. Inside, a beautiful, funny woman who’d been at least marginally interested in him sat at a table alone. It might not be too late to go back, apologize, try to explain. Then what? Make small talk as she’d suggested. Tell funny stories about his time at the Holmes estate. Take her home to his tiny room, try to get a leg over. Turn the lights off and pretend she was someone else? Jeanette didn’t deserve that.

“Sod this.” John turned away from the door and froze. 

Before him, tall and imposing in his voluminous coat, the chill wind ruffling his curls, stood Lord Sherlock Holmes. “Date not going well, I take it?”

“What are you doing here?” John shoved his hands in the pockets of his threadbare, secondhand jacket. Though he’d dressed as nicely as he could manage for his date, he keenly felt how shabby he appeared in comparison to a lord. Sherlock looked just as regal and imposing as John remembered, though perhaps a bit sallow in the city’s night-time glow. “Shouldn’t you still be in hospital?”

“You left very abruptly, and didn’t provide any contact information.” Sherlock’s face crinkled into the moue of displeasure John recognized well.

“I’m a free man, Sherlock.” John resisted the urge to lower his eyes when Sherlock approached him. “I can go where I please.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock sighed, as if he hadn’t implied the opposite. He prowled around John in a narrowing spiral.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” John drew his hands from his pockets and let his fingers curl into fists at his side, but he refused to fidget under Sherlock’s scrutiny.

“Obviously.” Sherlock leaned over John’s shoulder, then reached forward to touch John, towards the inconspicuous bulge at the back of John’s jacket, where he’d secured the Sig. John caught Sherlock’s wrist, twisted to the side, and let go quickly, aware that even his status as a free citizen didn’t give him much latitude in dealing with a lord. “Don’t,” he warned. 

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to thrust his hands into his pockets and look away. 

John cleared his throat. “You look well.”

“Is that what we’re reduced to, now? Small talk?”

“Jeanette assures me it’s an important part of engaging conversation.”

“Jeanette.” Sherlock said the word like a curse. “A school teacher. Really, John.”

“How do you--? Never mind.” If he asked, Sherlock would all too readily unspool the path of brilliant logic that had led him to the right conclusion, and John didn’t feel up to facing a full display of Sherlock’s genius just now. “It’s none of your business who I associate with.”

“Oh, is it not? Did you not recently agree to exclusive monogamy?”

“I—Yes?” John gaped. “When you owned me, Sherlock. When I was a slave. That’s… Obviously things are different now.”

“It’s not obvious to me. And I’m _very_ clever.”

“Not obvious!” John pointed an accusing finger. “I cannot believe that you and your massive intellect can’t work out what’s changed.”

“Did I coerce you into that promise? Did I force you to agree? You’re the one who asked!”

“You expect me to believe you don’t understand the power differential involved with—“ John realized all at once how close he’d got to Sherlock; near enough to see the flecks of changeable colour in his eyes, to feel the heat radiating from his body, to lean up and kiss him, if he had a mind. He jerked backwards, rocking onto his heels. “No. I don’t have to explain this to you. I don’t owe you anything.” John stomped past Sherlock, back down the street. 

“You said you wanted me.” Sherlock swept around him to block his path. “That you imagined we were equals, and that you would find our relationship acceptable under those conditions. You insinuated… Love.” He swallowed hard, as if the word pained him. “You used the word love. And you swore it would only be me.”

The facts in John’s mind busily rearranged themselves into new patterns. Sherlock had never been with anyone free. No one had ever been with him of their own volition. No one had ever taken him for who he was, the brilliant, infuriating man, not what he was, the mad but powerful Lord. No one had chosen Sherlock, ever. And John had said, if things had been different, if they’d met on the street, that he would have wanted Sherlock. The fantasy of it had kept him sane, in those first confusing days. And after… He’d made enough conscious choices to admit to himself that he hadn’t done what he did out of fear of punishment. “We never would have met,” John pointed out. “If I hadn’t been a slave, our paths never would have crossed.”

“I don’t deal in hypotheticals.” Sherlock stiffened his spine. “I prefer facts.”

“Alright. Well, I’m not a slave anymore, and it’s not the same. It couldn’t be the same, now. You do realize that?”

“You’ll want restitution.” Sherlock gave a business-like nod. “I’m willing to accept whatever you feel you need to do to… balance the scales.”

“Sherlock, what we were doing… It wasn’t like that, not for me.” John tamped down the inconvenient thrill that pulsed through his blood when he remembered Sherlock delivering expert blows with the paddle, reading the responses of John’s body and driving him relentlessly past the limits of pleasure. “I can’t say I enjoyed everything that happened when I was a slave, but that doesn’t mean I want to punish you. I’m not—I wouldn’t enjoy hurting you. What’s more, I don’t believe you’d enjoy it, either.”

“I’ll do what needs to be done.” Sherlock’s jaw took on a stubborn set. “It doesn’t matter if I enjoy it.”

“Does it matter if I enjoy it?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock snapped.

“It should be the same for both of us, Sherlock. Equal.” John pressed into Sherlock’s personal space until he could make Sherlock meet his eyes. “I like getting off with you. And I like it when my partner—you—enjoys himself. I told you that before; I had to learn how to make someone want to be with me.”

“I don’t know how to do that! How does one even begin to—Oh, this is impossible!” Sherlock spun away.

“No.” John caught his hands and held on. “Only improbable.”

“John,” Sherlock warned.

“You’ve learned new skills before, haven’t you? Must have done. Going undercover for a case or some such.”

“Of course. This is different.” Sherlock tugged his hands out of John’s grip and braced himself against the wall.

“Why?”

“Because it’s affecting the work, John! I can’t concentrate.” He sank down to perch on a crate next to the bins. “My capacity for focusing my attention has fallen 52% in the past week. Sleep and food intake have reverted to subsistence levels. Even correcting for current medical conditions, my efficiency has declined alarmingly. It’s inexcusable. May I remind you that Moriarty and Moran are still at large?”

“No one knows that better than me. Not all of us have the benefit of a personal security detail, you know.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock favoured him with a pointed look of disdain of the kind John hadn’t missed. “I’ve had you under observation since I first located you.”

“Oh really?” John spread his arms to indicate the obvious absence of armed guards. “Where?”

“The man listening intently to his mobile at the table by the restaurant’s front door, the woman who sold you your coffee this morning and every week day.” Sherlock ticked them off on his fingers. “The boy crouched behind the skip—“

“Stop, stop it.” John marched up to Sherlock. “You can’t just—I’m not yours anymore. You have no right to—“

“You won’t be taken again.” Sherlock grabbed John by the arms and held on fiercely. “He did it before from within a secure facility right under Mycroft’s pointy nose. It would be child’s play for him to take you off the street. No tracking chip, no guards to dispose of, no one even to notice you’ve gone missing.”

John shoved Sherlock off and stood silently for a moment. Then he offered, “Harry.”

“You haven’t told her about your change of status. In fact, you haven’t sought out anyone from your old life. Why?”

“I can look after myself.”

“Obviously you can’t!” Sherlock heaved to his feet. “Or you wouldn’t keep getting punished, and kidnapped, and taken away from me!”

“I am done with this conversation, Lord Holmes,” John shouted, then clenched his fists until he could continue at a more civilized volume. “I choose where I go, and who I talk to, and what security precautions I take to defend myself from madmen. I decide, not you.” He turned on his heel and marched back towards the restaurant. 

“John, wait. Please.”

John stopped. 

Sherlock kept his distance. “I’d like to see you again.” John could almost hear that colossal brain working out the right thing to say. “Dinner.”

“Is that a question?” John asked without turning around.

“Will you please come to dinner with me?” Sherlock said haltingly, as if speaking a language not his own.

John pivoted, and took in Sherlock’s sharp, focused eyes, the tense lines of his body. “Get rid of your watchdogs.”

“Out of the question.”

“Then so is dinner.” John started for the restaurant again. 

“Wait!” This time Sherlock dashed after him and barred his way. “What are your terms?”

“One week,” John gritted out. “I don’t want to see hide nor hair of your informants for one week.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Then nothing has to change. You’ve never noticed them before.”

“Not what I meant. Promise me you won’t have me watched or followed, or surveilled in any way, for one week.”

“You’d never know if I cheated.”

“I trust your word. You’ve never lied to me.”

A flicker of surprise played over Sherlock’s face before he marshalled his expression back to its standard haughty neutrality. “Your blog.”

“What about it?”

“It’s publically accessible, so doesn’t count as surveillance.”

“It’s public?” John’s mind raced back through his recent writings, trying to recall if there’d been anything terribly personal. “I’ve never even looked at the settings, how did you—“

“Update it.” Sherlock gripped John by the arm, even as he leaned heavily against the wall.

“Why?”

“To confirm nothing’s happened. Hourly updates.”

“Daily updates.”

“Twice daily. Morning and evening,” Sherlock countered, in a voice grown somewhat ragged. 

“Fine. No other contact, no other watching.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock slumped back against the wall, though he didn’t let go of John’s arm. “Dinner on Friday, then. I trust I can contact you with the details? If that’s not too intrusive.”

“Yes,” John said slowly. It might have been his eyes playing tricks in the dim light, but he thought he could make out a thin sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s pale skin. “Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Sherlock’s legs gave out, and he thumped onto the ground, held up only by the building. “You may want to call an ambulance. I may have… overexerted myself.”

“You—?” John dropped to his knees on the cold pavement. He tore open the buttons of Sherlock’s coat to see a set of scrubs. “Did you sneak out of the hospital?”

“I’m ashamed to say it took four attempts before I succeeded.”

“Madman.” John fished Sherlock’s mobile out of his coat pocket, pressed 999, and held Sherlock propped against his shoulder until help arrived.  
\--


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade stopped the ball with his foot and shooed Kieran back into the goal before turning to his other two charges. “Closer. Don’t worry so much about your form for now. It’s not about looking pretty. Just kick it! Try again, Ahmad.”

Ahmad braced up and managed a good solid kick that sent the ball spinning past the makeshift goal Lestrade had outlined in twine.

“There! That’s something. Now—“

“What’s this sloppy lot? Not a one of you would pass muster under my watch!”

Lestrade turned to assess the interloper, to determine whether he’d need to bow and apologize, only to see Sally Donovan grinning over the garden gate. “Sally,” he called. “Good to see you!” 

The three boys who’d been playing had backed off and assumed poses of deference: heads lowered, hands neatly folded before them. One had dropped to his knees. 

“Theo, get up, lad. Sally’s one of Lord Mycroft’s staff. Just like us.” Lestrade jogged over to open the gate and let Sally is. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow at Lestrade as she stepped inside, then turned to the other slaves. “Lestrade here’s an old friend.”

The boys shared a few curious glances, but at least they’d moved along from “potentially terrified” to “respectfully impressed.”

They gave way quickly when Sally stepped past them to examine the makeshift goal. “Not really enough room to kick a ball back here, is there?”

“We’ll get out to a real pitch one of these days. Most around here are for citizens only.” Lestrade noticed the boys huddling together; he felt the chill himself now that he wasn’t running about. “Go on in, boys, get cleaned up.” 

As they filed out, Kieran tossed Lestrade the ball, then closed the door to the house behind him. Lestrade slumped onto the stone bench next to the rose patch and gestured for Sally to sit. “You look well.” 

“You look like shite.” She stood squinting down at him in the bright afternoon sun. “And not just because you’ve been kicking a ball around a garden.”

“Don’t try to get me in trouble, Sally. I am working.” He tossed the ball up and kicked it gently onto the grass. “And before you ask, yes, Jasper knows.”

“God, I was so angry with you, back then.” Sally dropped onto the bench beside him. “Seeing you run around a pitch like that. I’ll admit I was equal parts scandalized and jealous.”

“Well, you knocked some sense into me. I appreciated it later, even if I didn’t at the time.” He smoothed his hand down his jacket, conscious of how grubby he looked next the impeccable black and white of Sally’s attire. “What brings you into town?”

“Anthea asked me to run some errands. I thought I’d drop something by while I was here.” She hefted her satchel onto her lap. “Did you ever put away any paperwork that came through your office?”

“Some of it,” Lestrade muttered. Mostly, he’d employed the same methods he had as a DI: deal with the most important bits, and leave the rest to become an interactive monument to organized chaos.

“Well, I’ve made improvements to your system. Mainly using these new inventions called file cabinets. When you come back you can start with a clean slate.”

“Sally—“ Her sharp look prevented Lestrade from protesting that he wouldn’t be coming back. Instead, he cast about for a neutral topic to discuss, something from home—Lord Mycroft’s home—but what came out was, “How is he?”

“Cold,” she said immediately. “It reminds me of how he was before, when you went away.”

“Milverton.”

“Yeah. Only twice that.”

Lestrade could picture it well: Lord Mycroft’s icy façade of indifference, the one he put on to shut out any distractions from outside sources. Over the years, Lestrade had developed his own ways of eeling through those defences to uncover the problems his master attempted to hide. But Lord Mycroft had dealt with his own problems before Lestrade arrived, and would again. “It’ll pass, Sally. Everything will settle, be back to how it was before. As if I’d never even darkened your door.”

“God, I hope not.” Sally tugged a folder out of her satchel, and passed it to Lestrade. “Here’s what I brought.”

Lestrade took the folder, a cornflower blue one stamped with notice of its security clearance in bright red ink. “What is this?”

“I found it when I was clearing out the small country’s worth of paperwork in your office.”

“And the fact that it might be some official, secret—“

“Relax, boss. I asked Anthea. She said you had the clearance for it.”

Lestrade examined the strongly worded security warnings, then raised an eyebrow at Sally. “I don’t suppose you sneaked a peek yourself.”

“That’s none of your business.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Will you just look?”

“Sally. Whatever this is… It’s Lord Mycroft’s business, yeah?” Lestrade handed the folder back, and pressed Sally’s hand over the top. “I left that behind when I came here, and that’s for the best.”

“The best for whom, Greg? You seem to be having a grand old time here.” She waved her hand to encompass the goal, the garden, and the football. “But I don’t imagine it’s news to you that things are not so wonderful back at home. Don’t we matter to you?”

“It’s better this way, believe me.” Lestrade rose from the bench and put a few steps between him and Sally. “I wouldn’t be helping anyone going back there.”

“Will you take it anyway?” Sally stood and followed Lestrade. She offered the folder once more. “As a favour.” Lestrade chanced a glance at Sally, who caught his eyes and held them. He took the folder. “I’ve got to get back to work.” She turned and marched out of the garden.

Lestrade ran three steps and kicked the football with all his strength, sending it crashing into the fence with a satisfying bang.  
\--

 

John sat on a bench by the departures board at Waterloo, in as plain view as he could manage. He contemplated the trains as they rolled into and out of the station. A thought arrived with the force of a steam engine: he could buy a ticket. A moment later he realized he didn’t even know the location of the Holmes ancestral manse. He’d never gone there on his own. He couldn’t have pointed it out on a map. Even if he had known how to get there—second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning or some nonsense—he wouldn’t be allowed in. Security would take one look at him and send him packing.

After a knot of departing commuters rushed past his bench, he looked up to find Constable Barrett standing over him.

“Constable.” Without a hat to tip, he settled for a friendly nod. “I thought I might run into you here.”

“Dr Watson.” She perched on the bench next to him. “Jeanette said you faffed off before the starters and left her with the bill.”

“Er, right, yeah.” John considered, for a brief moment, offering some sort of explanation before realizing the truth would make him sound insane. He decided to settle for contrition. “I am sorry about that. Truly I am.”

“You could have texted. An apology. You made me look like an ass.”

“Sorry. I was a bit…. Distracted.”

“Hm.” Barrett leant back and crossed her arms. “Why are you hanging about?”

“I have a question, actually.” John put on his most innocent face. “That man the other night—“

“Oh no,” Barrett chuckled. “You can stop right there.”

“Excuse me?”

“As soon as the DCI got wind of the name Sherlock Holmes, he took a keen interest in the case. I’m afraid it’d be worth my job to let you do any more mucking about.”

“Alright. Couldn’t hurt to ask, could it.” John looked out at the milling station and counted silently to ten. “It’s just, there was another piece of evidence that went with the rest of the stuff that led me here, and I wondered if it had anything to do with this.”

“What is it, then?” Barrett eyed him suspiciously. 

“A seed packet.”

“What kind?”

“Wisteria.” The packet itself presumably remained tacked to the wall in his old quarters with the rest of Sherlock’s evidence, but John had puzzled over this piece long enough to remember the details. “But it wasn’t new. Looked quite old, in fact.”

“Hang on.” Barrett turned in her seat. “How old?”

“Vintage. 1950s, maybe? I don’t know much about gardening, I’m afraid.”

“A seed packet. Damn.” She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “I should have known, from the second I found out you were with Lord Sherlock, you’d be trouble. Alright.” She sprang to her feet and stopped John from following with a raised finger. “I’m taking this to DCI Dimmock, and if, _only_ if, he says it’s okay, we’ll bring you in on this.”

“You going to tell me what ‘this’ is?”

“Not on your life, chum. You’re the type that runs out on the bill, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the official channels.” Barrett disappeared into the stream of commuters, leaving John alone and somewhat chagrined. 

He dug some coins from his pocket and found one of the station’s few remaining pay phones. After contemplating the wisdom of an apology call to Jeanette and deciding against it, he dialled the only friend he had in London. 

John didn’t know the young man who answered, but as soon as he asked for Lestrade, he received an alarming deluge of politeness: “At your service, of course, my pleasure, sir, only be a moment, sorry for the delay,” that continued until the receiver was passed over. 

“This is Gregory.”

“Greg, hi. It’s John. John Watson.”

“Dr Watson. Hello.” Indistinct rustling came across the line as the receiver was covered. “Piss off! It’s not him!” Then Lestrade came back on. “They’re convinced any man who calls for me must be Lord Mycroft. Never mind he’s the last person who’d want to talk to me right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oh, don’t you start, too. Anyway, sorry again about your date. I really didn’t mean to put Lord Sherlock on your scent.”

“He has a way of finding out what he wants to know, whether or not anyone wants him to.” John moved to put his back to the station. He felt sure Sherlock had called off his surveillance, but that didn’t mean Lord Mycroft wasn’t watching. “Hey, speaking of his lordship, I was wondering if you’d heard anything more about that smuggling operation. The Black Lotus. Only I had this cop asking questions, ah, and I thought if I might be able to help, that might make up for the trouble I caused the other night.”

“I doubt you were the one causing the trouble.” Lestrade’s sigh sounded almost wistful. “I did get a look at the file they’re working with, but I don’t know if there’s much I can add.”

“You know, I remember Sherlock had this vintage seed packet, wisteria. Empty, well-preserved and all. Seem like that would be significant?”

“If I remember the report right, they did canvas the Gardening Museum down there in Lambeth, when they were first looking for the smuggling ring. Hang on.” There was a sound of shuffling paper and a muffled curse. “Yeah, they thought it might have been a stopover for some of the contraband. They questioned the Museum Director, but they didn’t find anything.” 

“It’s probably nothing, then. Thanks anyway.” Perhaps he would have felt guiltier lying to Lestrade, he reflected, if he hadn’t spent so long as the property of an expert manipulator. “Hey, did you want to get a pint later on? Can you?”

“I’ve actually got something I need to take care of tonight. I can ask about tomorrow?”

“You’re on.” John rang off, then dug out a few more coins to drop in the slot. “Yes, hello. Can I get an address for the Imperial Gardening Museum?”  
\--

 

Lestrade took a pile of work down to the house’s tiny library after supper. The cheery fire reminded him of many evenings in Lord Mycroft’s quarters working quietly alongside his master. Often such evenings would turn to physical indulgence, when one or the other of them allowed himself to be distracted from the paperwork by a whispered word or a heavy look. 

Tonight, however, Lestrade sat alone. The blue folder lay at the bottom of his stack of papers. He hadn’t opened it, but he had kept it with him almost every moment since Sally had handed it off. He told himself such precautions were necessary for national security. 

“You’re up late.” 

Lestrade looked up to see Jasper standing in the doorway, outlined in lamp light from the corridor. “Catching up on paperwork. Sally reminded me it’s not a strength of mine.”

“Hm. Brandy?” Jasper crossed to the drinks cabinet and lifted out two snifters. 

“Are we…” Lestrade stopped his own question when he realized Jasper wouldn’t have proposed something forbidden. Until now, Lestrade had spent so few nights away from his master’s side that his need for knowledge about behaviour in his master’s absence had been largely unnecessary. He’d have to trust Jasper as the expert. “Yeah, alright.”

Jasper poured two generous glasses, brought one to Lestrade, and took the other to the wingback chair across from Lestrade. He swirled the alcohol in his snifter and held it up to the light. “Lord Mycroft keeps an excellent collection of spirits.”

Lestrade breathed in the familiar scent of brandy before savouring his first sip. It felt heavy on his tongue. 

“Lord Mycroft stopped by here yesterday.”

Lestrade just managed to swallow his brandy instead of spraying it across the priceless rug. “Does he do that often?”

“Only when he knows you’ve gone out.” Jasper offered Lestrade an expectant glance. 

Lestrade took another sip of brandy to wet his suddenly parched mouth. “How did he seem?”

“You asked Sally the same thing.”

“The dirty traitor,” Lestrade muttered, but he couldn’t muster any real anger towards Sally. 

“She’s concerned for you, Gregory.”

“She gave me this.” Lestrade drew the blue folder from his stack of papers. “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“I haven’t looked at it.” He dropped it back on top of the pile, though he couldn’t seem to look away. “I don’t suppose Lord Mycroft’s business concerns me, anymore.”

“What about old business? These are part of the preparations he made.”

“Preparations for shirking his duties, you mean.” Jasper’s sharp look sent a stab of shame through Lestrade for words he knew to be unfair. He swallowed another gulp of brandy. “Anthea mentioned he’d sold off some property.”

“It’s more than that. Look.” When Lestrade hesitated, Jasper heaved a put-upon sigh that rivalled Lord Sherlock. “If you hadn’t meant to open it you wouldn’t be carrying it around.”

Lestrade picked up the folder and flipped it open. On top he found an official-looking document in dense legalese. “What am I looking at?”

“Incorporation papers. Lord Mycroft created a charitable foundation, a sort of holding corporation.” Jasper drew his glasses from his pocket, put them on, and glanced over at the papers. “See, those are the bylaws. It’s a fully licensed Imperial charity organisation, so in the event of Lord Mycroft’s personal property being stripped, the holdings couldn’t be touched.”

“Neat way to keep the Empire out of his money.”

“It’s not about the money, Gregory. It’s about preserving the things Lord Mycroft isn’t willing to part with.” Jasper plucked the folder from Lestrade’s hands, flipped through the papers, and drew out a stapled packet. “Here’s an inventory of the endowed assets—those that aren’t eligible to be sold or transferred.”

Lestrade took the packet. The first page, neatly typed on Imperial letterhead, bore a list of accounts and properties belonging to a charitable endowment managed by Lord Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade recognized a piece of seafront property in Gibraltar and a toy factory in Malta. He flipped to the next page to find a list of slave IDs, at least a score. And there, at the top, was his own. He raised his eyes to find Jasper watching him intently.

“Mine’s there, as well. Mrs. Hudson’s. A few others who’ve done the family long service and wouldn’t want to leave.”

“He isn’t planning to sell me. He never said…” That Lord Mycroft should have considered this in his plans—considered not only Lestrade’s place, but others of his slaves as well—put the evidence in rather a new light. Lestrade glanced through the rest of the packet, pages and pages of it, reeling at the extent of Lord Mycroft’s thorough preparations. “Jasper. What I don’t understand is why go to all this trouble? Why offer himself up as a scapegoat at all?”

“You know why he wanted to do this. You must know.”

“He didn’t want the responsibility anymore.” That had to figure in to the motive. The most valuable asset gained from the assassination gambit, from Lord Mycroft’s point of view, would have been an easing of his Imperial commitments and reduction of public scrutiny. 

“Perhaps that’s some of it.” Jasper swirled the last of his brandy. “He never enjoyed public life as much as his father did.”

Lestrade recognized a reluctant witness when he saw one. “You have a theory,” he prompted.

“This is never the kind of life he wanted. Banquets and entertaining visiting dignitaries and erotic contortionists and all. He despised all that.” Jasper rose slowly from his chair and shuffled over to lean against the mantel. “I never saw him happier than when he was sitting at his desk, thinking, and you with your head in his lap, muttering ideas to each other. You can’t think that...”

“What?”

“You are an idiot, Gregory.” Jasper downed the rest of his brandy.

“Now you sound like Lord Sherlock.”

“I know you are not that dense.” Jasper turned back from the mantel to trap Lestrade with the same look of exasperated disappointment he applied when one of the boys mucked up the dinner service. “Don’t you see why he did it?”

“If it’s because of me...” Lestrade turned over the clues in his mind: the charity; the strict secrecy of all the preparations; Anthea’s insistence that Lestrade reconsider; the subtle words of warning weeks ago, about one last thing to accomplish; Lord Mycroft’s tolerance of all of Lestrade’s failings as a personal slave. Perhaps Lestrade had been too close to the situation—the case, as Lord Sherlock would call it—to really see the connections, or perhaps he’d selfishly avoided considering matters that might cost him in regret and loss of pride. Either way, he cursed himself for a fool for not seeing it before. “I can’t let him do it. Planning all this—people dying—because he thought it would somehow change things between us... No. I cannot be the cause of that.”

“Well. Then maybe you should tell him so.”

Lestrade clutched his glass hard. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Ever tell your master something he didn’t want to hear?”

Jasper looked into the flames a long moment before answering. “I have been a slave all my life. _Freedom Through Obedience_ teaches that a slave should have no thought beyond his master’s satisfaction. That is how I was trained. It took me many years to understand that the greatest satisfaction I could give Lord Holmes was to tell him what I truly believed. Everyone around him thought only of how what they said could get them what they wanted. I alone could speak freely to him. It wasn’t without cost to do so, but it was also not without reward.” Jasper retrieved the decanter of brandy from the sideboard and refilled the glass Lestrade hadn’t realized was empty before topping up his own. “Being born into this way of life gives me certain advantages in terms of perspective. There is no manumission. My term as a slave has no limit. I will not ever be a free man. My satisfaction comes from excelling at my work, from the chance to contribute to building something greater than myself. That is what gives me the strength to get up each day. And you, Gregory? What keeps you alive?”

“I…” Lestrade rolled his glass between his hands, watching the alcohol ripple and flow. “It’s not…”

“I know you.” Jasper laid his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. “A man like you needs more to live for than just himself. You need work. You need a place in the world. I do not believe you’d walk away from the chance to do something worth doing.” Jasper picked up the folder and pressed it into Lestrade’s hand. “I’ll leave this with you. I trust you will give it the consideration it deserves.”  
\--

 

John had only been standing outside the Imperial Garden Museum a few minutes when a panda car pulled up beside him.

Constable Barrett climbed out of the car and half-blinded John with her torch. “Why am I not surprised you found your way here.”

“Yes, hello Constable.” John shielded his eyes from the beam, and she switched it off. “No luck with your boss, eh?”

“Well, DCI Dimmock is a stickler for procedure. Considering the source of the information, he didn’t feel this part of the investigation warranted a review.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

“Just came off duty.” Barrett sat on the bonnet of the panda and patted the spot next to her. John sat down. “We’d canvassed this place before. Thought it might have something to do with a smuggling operation, but we couldn’t find anything.”

“But?” John prompted. 

“You were right about the tattoo, weren’t you?”

“Maybe I got lucky.” John’s eye caught on one of the museum’s first storey windows, where a beam of light moved. He tugged Barrett’s sleeve and pointed. “Did you see that?”

“Where? Oh. Night watchman?”

A crash of breaking glass fractured the night’s quiet as shards burst outwards from the window and shattered against the pavement. 

“Take cover!” Barrett moved at a crouching run. “Hang on. I’m calling for backup.” She yanked open the car door and shouted into her radio.

“That’s a nice change,” John muttered. He kept his eyes fixed on the broken window, where he could make out at least one figure stumbling around in the dark. Then came another crash, and a pained cry—this one from a voice he recognized. 

“Sherlock.” The world narrowed to just the essentials—comrade in danger, access route, defence capabilities. John barely heard Barrett shouting after him as he sprinted around the side of the building. 

A door stood ajar, lock forced. John pulled the Sig from its hiding place under his jacket. It felt right in his hand. A controlled rush took him through the door; he moved in an arc to sweep the perimeter. No enemy movement. Orange light filtered in from the street lamps outside, but most of the narrow room lay in shadows. A broad staircase led to the first floor, and that’s where John ran, gun at the ready. 

The stairs let out at a high-ceilinged gallery where a giant of a man had his hands wrapped around Sherlock’s face, holding him trapped while Sherlock kicked and struggled. 

John levelled the Sig. The action required no thought at all. “Let him go or I will kill you.”

Sherlock succeeded in prying the man’s hands free of his mouth and managed to shout, “John!” before the gargantuan man let loose with a kick that sent John and the gun flying. 

John rolled with the impact and came up on his hands and knees. He spent only a moment groping for the gun in the dark before giving it up as hopeless. When he staggered to his feet he saw the giant standing over Sherlock’s prone form, hands raised. 

John sprang across the room and vaulted onto the man’s back. With his arms wrapped around the man’s neck, John could do little but hold on, but at least the man had abandoned his immediate goal of crushing Sherlock into pieces. John shifted to get a better grip, and realized that the hard material around the man’s neck wasn’t just muscle; he wore a thick metal collar, rough and unfinished, seemingly welded on. When John shifted a hand to touch it, the man let out an enraged snarl and tried to drag John off. 

Sherlock shouted what seemed an incomprehensible hodgepodge of consonants, but might have been a name. “Who’s your master?”

Letting out another furious roar, the man prised John’s arms off from around his neck and dashed him to the floor. For a few seconds, John could only gasp for air as every muscle radiated pain. Then Sherlock came bowling into him, sending them both into an untidy sprawl. 

Sherlock shoved John aside in his haste to untangle them; when he sat up, he held John’s gun. “Golem!” he shouted. Two shots pierced through the darkness, but their target was already fleeing down the stairs. 

“Damn!” Sherlock slapped his hand against the wooden floor.

“Hey, give me that.” John snatched the gun from Sherlock’s hand, replaced the safety, and shoved it back underneath his jacket. “Are you alright?” He grabbed Sherlock by the face and turned him towards the light to get a better look at the red marks on his neck. “Try not to speak.”

Breath heaved in Sherlock’s chest, and though his mouth moved, no words seemed to make it out.

“Sherlock, slow down and breathe with me, yeah?” John planted a hand on Sherlock’s chest and demonstrated as slow a breath as he could manage with his own heart still thundering away.

Sherlock, with his eyes fixed on John’s mouth, gulped in two deep breaths before he managed to form words. “I didn’t know you would be here. If I’m not monitoring you, how could I plan to avoid you? It’s not an intentional violation of the agreement! I was working!”

“I know, Sherlock, I know. Stop. Breathe.” John smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s sides. “Who was that?”

“Contract assassin from the Czech Protectorate,” Sherlock wheezed. “Oscar Dzundza, alias Golem. I’ve seen him before.”

“Did you come here alone? Knowing there would be a seven-foot-tall assassin? And you not a week out of hospital?”

“I knew it was possible he’d still be here, yes. That’s not important.” Sherlock sat up straighter, grabbed John’s arms and held on with bruising force. “This doesn’t mean you’re calling off the date?”

“Sherlock, you were nearly suffocated.”

“Is that a no?”

“You impossible—“ John pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s in a fierce kiss, pouring his relief and frustration and adrenaline into the meeting of their lips, the sparring of their tongues. As soon as he’d spent enough of his passion in the kiss to think clearly, he pulled back a fraction. He let his head rest against Sherlock’s, and made himself breathe slowly to set a good example. “Go on, then,” he whispered. “Keep breathing.”

Miraculously, Sherlock stayed still and let John hold him until the clatter of a mass of people tromping up the steps made them both look up.

“That explains so much.” Constable Barrett shone her torch right in John’s face, then in Sherlock’s. “Right, you two. You’re going to have to break it up so I can take statements.”

Sherlock seemed to have a talent for convincing law enforcement personnel to leave him to his own devices, because they spent only a quarter of an hour under Barrett’s supervision before she waved them away in favour of examining the scene. Though John couldn’t say how exactly he found himself in the museum’s darkened garden only minutes after they’d been dismissed.

“This is not…in any way… appropriate.” John found it difficult to speak with Sherlock’s hand down his y-fronts, recklessly manhandling him. He tipped his head back against the stone wall and shut his eyes against the sight of the cloudy London sky. “For one thing… you… were nearly killed.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock didn’t even sound winded, the bastard.

“Also… this place is still… crawling with police.”

“Who are doubtlessly occupying themselves with the museum director’s murder at the hands of an internationally-wanted assassin, and so will hardly have occasion to be strolling through the courtyard.” 

“Getting arrested for indecent—“ 

“I notice you haven’t asked me to stop.” Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s cock. When John gave a strangled grunt, Sherlock leaned in to mouth his words against John’s jaw. “I have been paying attention, you know. Every time I’ve initiated public displays of possessive behaviour, you’ve responded positively. When I’ve described fantasy scenarios of public claiming, your visible arousal increased. Obviously, within the bounds of good sense, you find this sort of thing stimulating.”

“Okay. Well observed.” John might have argued if his cock hadn’t been undeniably hard and ready in Sherlock’s hand. He could feel Sherlock’s triumphant smile in his next, insistent kiss. But rather than letting Sherlock have his way entirely, John grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved, flipping them so he had Sherlock up against the wall. “But I like to have some say in what we do, yeah?”

“Yes?” Sherlock’s pale eyes fairly glowed in the dim light. “Then fuck me.”

“God, Sherlock.” John drew a breath in through clenched teeth.

“You said you would. As a reward.” Sherlock snaked a hand around John’s waist and tugged him in close enough to feel Sherlock’s hardness through the layers separating them. “Haven’t I been good?”

“Not particularly, no,” John chuckled. When Sherlock’s face crumpled into indignant pique, John kissed him. “I will. Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“For starters, we’re not using that as a way to keep score between us. Who has the power in a relationship is not determined by who puts what where on any given day, and this not is not about—Jesus, I cannot give a lecture while you are doing that.” John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist to stop its terribly distracting rubbing over John’s cock through his pants.

“Then don’t.”

“More importantly, Sherlock.” He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s neck and tugged him in close, to drop his words directly in Sherlock’s ear. “When it happens, I want us to be someplace private. I promised I’d make you scream.”

Sherlock drew back just far enough to look John in the face. “Right.” It may have been the recent strangling, but he looked a bit flushed. “Well. In that case.” He shoved John, slamming his back into the wall again. “We must be quiet.”

Sherlock dropped to his knees with a muffled thump. Before John could draw breath to speak, Sherlock mouthed at John through the thin cotton of his y-fronts.

“Guh.” John braced himself against the stone as Sherlock tugged John’s pants down to his thighs and went about using his mouth on John with deliberate thoroughness. The first time Sherlock had done this for him, John had been bound to a Saltaire cross, helpless under the onslaught of pleasure, and then later, after Sherlock had rescued him from yet another punishment, he’d been blindfolded and had his hands tied. This time John intended to take full advantage of his freedom. He started by twining his hands in Sherlock’s soft curls. He didn’t try to take control—no point in messing about with something working very, very well—just rode the rhythm Sherlock set, and brushed the occasional stray lock out of Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the back of John’s thighs so he could turn him slightly this way or that: find a better angle to lick him root to crown, or to let John’s cock stretch against the inside of his cheek. 

“You are… gorgeous.” 

Sherlock’s pale eyes flicked up to meet John’s. Those penetrating eyes focused only on him, the silky feel of Sherlock’s hair under his fingers, the heady sight of that clever mouth stretched wide around his cock, the delicious pressure of Sherlock’s tongue all combined to drive John over the edge. He managed a hissed, “Sherlock!” before his hips kicked forward. Sherlock grabbed a handful of John’s arse and held on, moving to keep his mouth on John. 

John’s pleasure boiled over, flooding all his senses and washing away anything else. One hand he shoved in his mouth to muffle an involuntary shout, while the other he closed in Sherlock’s hair, unwilling to break the connection. When the climax receded, roaring away like a retreating tidal wave, John was left weak and boneless. His knees gave out, dumping him on his arse in the dirt, face to face with Sherlock, whose eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. 

“Satisfactory?” he asked. 

John marshalled his strength to shove Sherlock onto his back and climb over him. “Satisfactory?” He yanked open Sherlock’s trousers, heedless of the fussy fastenings and shoved a hand inside to feel Sherlock’s hard length. “You’re bloody brilliant, you are.” John smeared a kiss across Sherlock’s cheek as his hand moved in firm, relentless strokes, looking for the rhythm that would make Sherlock lose that look of consideration in favour of ecstatic abandon. “That mouth, the things that come out of it, Christ, Sherlock. I missed you. God help me, I thought about you every hour, I couldn’t—I should have known it wouldn’t have made a difference.” Perhaps John shouldn’t say this, but he felt as helpless to stem these confessions now as he had been as a slave. Seeing Sherlock come undone beneath him, he lost all will to hold back. “I could have every damn person in the world to choose from, and I’d still want you. Look at you.”

“John—“ Sherlock bucked under his hand.

“Go on. I want to see.” John thumbed over the head and twisted his hand just the way he’d learned drove his master mad. “Give it to me, come on, love.”

Sherlock arched back with a wordless cry. His heels kicked weakly and his hands scrabbled for purchase in the dirt. John dived in to capture his mouth, swallowing the moans of pleasure that bubbled up as his cock pulsed and jerked in John’s hand. At last, Sherlock slumped against the ground, gasping. John wiped his hand against Sherlock’s belly before sitting back on his heels. The flushed, dishevelled and stained specimen of lordship below him might have been the most gorgeous sight John had ever had the pleasure to see. 

A creak and a clatter sent John dropping down to flatten himself on top of Sherlock. A beam of light played over the hedges and flowerbeds, throwing strange shadows against the wall. 

“I could’a swore I heard summat. Voices, like.”

“There’s nothing here. You’re going mental. I told you, it’s these hours. Terrible. I was telling Alice—“ The voices faded, and the door clicked shut. 

John felt Sherlock’s chest heaving, and looked down to see his hand clamped over his mouth, holding in his laughter. 

John bit back giggles of his own. “You wanker,” he said, trying for sternness despite the laughter. “You said we wouldn’t get caught.”

“And we didn’t.” Sherlock raised his chin, almost managing to look smug despite his rumpled state. “I’m never wrong.”

“Yes you are. You’re wrong all the time.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John to keep him close. “Not this time.”  
\--


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade watched John pick up his pint, raise it halfway, and set it back down for the third time in a row. He hid a smile behind his lager and waited. John would make his point in his own time. 

At last, John shook his head, took a healthy swallow of his beer, and looked at Lestrade. “I guess that’s all there is to tell. Does this make me a complete idiot?”

“Well…” Lestrade considered what he knew of both men in light of John’s recounting of recent events. “Lord Sherlock thinks everyone’s an idiot, so I don’t see how you could be an exception.”

“That makes me feel ever so much better, thanks.”

“I’ve known Lord Sherlock a long time. Before I even know he was nobility, in fact.” Lestrade compared the manic young man he’d once met to the lord who’d broken into his room last week and chalked up a surprising number of differences. “He acts differently around you. He tries. I’ve never seen him go to that trouble for anyone.”

“Do you think he really gets that I’m not…“ John gestured vaguely to his person, or maybe to his neck. “Not his property anymore?”

Lestrade settled back in his seat and considered the man before him. He couldn’t really know what Lord Sherlock was thinking—no one could—but Lestrade would have been shocked if he had any tricks John Watson couldn’t handle. “If anyone’s capable of reminding him, it’s you.”

“So you’re not going to try to talk me out of this.”

“Strangely, no. I’m not.” Lestrade raised his glass and clinked it against John’s. “You have my blessing.”

“Well, that’s me sorted.” John laughed and took another swig. “Are we going to move on to your love life, then?”

“Lord.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m going to need at least one more before I’m prepared for that conversation.”

John’s laughter died away. “Bad, is it?”

It was Lestrade’s turn to pick up his pint and set it down again, un-tasted. “John, a slave doesn’t have a love life. He has a duty. And I’ve done that. Haven’t I?” 

“Listen—“ John’s eyes flicked past Lestrade to catch on something in the pub. Instantly his back straightened and he braced himself against the table. “Incoming, watch out.”

Lestrade turned, expecting, perhaps, some rowdy patrons who took exception to a slave sitting at a table with a free citizen, and instead saw Lord Sherlock barrelling towards them.

“You’re early,” John greeted him. “How did you know where—“

“Jasper mentioned it. And that’s not cheating, that’s listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people.” He rounded on Lestrade. “Are you trying to talk John out of engaging in a relationship with me?”

“Sherlock, let him be,” John said warningly.

“If he is, John, he’s hardly one to be giving romantic advice.” Lord Sherlock said over his shoulder, before returning his glare to Lestrade. “Look at the state of your relationship.” 

“Oi, Sherlock.” John hooked his hand around Lord Sherlock’s elbow, but was immediately shrugged off.

“Misery loves company, is that it? You’re hoping John will end up as miserable and pathetic as you.”

“Sherlock!” The pointed command in John’s voice made Lord Sherlock turn. John’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a thin, flat line.

Lord Sherlock’s eyes slid away: to the floor, the far wall, and briefly to Lestrade before returning to John. “Not good?”

“Bit not good, yeah.” John looked pointedly from Lord Sherlock to Lestrade.

Lord Sherlock sighed. He crowded John over one place and commandeered his chair. With a quick glance at John, Lord Sherlock propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. “Lestrade. As you may know, my brother is an idiot.”

“Funny,” Lestrade snorted. “I’ve heard him say the same about you.”

“Listen!” Lord Sherlock slapped his palm against the table, jarring the drinks and earning annoyed looks from the other punters. “You’re a detective, of a sort. For God’s sake, will you see what’s right in front of you? Mycroft has not acquired a personal slave to take up your duties. This fact has not gone unremarked upon in the social circles in which my brother runs. Anthea has been filling in at functions for which an attendant is required. She complains about it endlessly via text.”

“She texts you?” Lestrade asked. He’d long suspected that not all of those constant messages could be to Lord Mycroft. 

“We correspond. Have since the Milverton case. Mycroft has made every accommodation he can think of to win back your affection, and if you so much as hinted at any other condition, he’d send his minions to take care of it before you were done speaking. It’s clear my brother has no intention of replacing you. If you don’t put him out of his misery, he’ll go on stoically subsisting until he eats himself to death or has a mental breakdown. My money’s on the former. If there’s anything he could do to win you back, I suggest you name it. If there’s nothing, say so, and we can all move on with our lives. Now, if that’s worked out your issues, I presume you have no objections to my taking charge of John.” He stood and flung his scarf over his shoulder. “Good evening.”

John settled back in his seat and looked up at Lord Sherlock. “Have you asked if John has any objections to your taking charge of John?”

Lord Sherlock set his jaw mulishly and pushed his words out through gritted teeth. “May we go to dinner now, please?”

“Yes, alright. Bye, Greg.” John managed, mostly, to hide the smile in his words. Sherlock swept out of the pub as John began pulling on his jacket. When John stood, he clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “Think about what he said, yeah? He’s a tosser, but he may be right.” John followed after Lord Sherlock. 

Lestrade nursed his pint for another half hour before making his way home through the chilly streets. He found Jasper in the library with a book and a brandy.

“Did you enjoy your outing?” Jasper asked without looking up. 

“I think I’ll go out tomorrow.” Lestrade leaned against the doorframe, aiming for casual. “Run some of those errands on the house list.”

“Oh?” Jasper peered over the top of his spectacles.

“Leave early. Probably come back after tea.”

“I see.” Jasper wore a smile as he turned the page of his book. “Goodnight, Gregory.”  
\--

JOHN

John stopped at the corner and folded his arms. “You already deduced the best Chinese restaurant in the neighbourhood, and my favourite dish, and what my fortune cookie said, though I still say that was a lucky guess. You don’t need to deduce where I live.”

“It’s simple. The work’s half done already.” Sherlock tried to bound ahead again, but John caught his arm.

“Sherlock, I know you’re brilliant. There’s no need to keep showing off.”

“Fine.” Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and raised his chin. “Then lead on.” He sulked during the short walk to the building, the journey up the lift, and the trudge down the corridor to John’s door.

John’s fumbling with his keys pulled an aggrieved sigh out of Sherlock. John turned to find him staring off down the corridor, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t mean showing off.”

“Yes, you did.” Sherlock snatched the keys out of John’s hand. “It’s this one.”

“Thanks.” John took his key back, opened the door, and motioned Sherlock inside. “I just meant you don’t have to try so hard.”

Sherlock remained stubbornly planted in the corridor. “And yet, I must somehow make myself sufficiently appealing to compel you to want to be with me, and if I fall short of that standard you’ll choose someone else.”

“That’s not exactly…” When John reviewed their conversations in his head, he had to concede Sherlock’s point that it sounded that way. “It’s not a contest.”

“Hm.” Sherlock swept into the room. As John flicked on the light, he was treated to a replay of all the anxiety that had cropped up the first time Sherlock saw John’s room in the slave quarters. If Sherlock could deduce John’s life story from a setting with so little personal input, what could he read from this, John’s chosen lodging as a free man?

Sherlock turned in a slow circle, his eyes darting from point to point, doubtlessly cataloguing clues and observations. He bent over John’s heater, poked at a stain on the wall, and sniffed the curtains. When he whirled around and caught sight of John, his face fell. “Well. It’s a… nice place.”

John watched him swallow his deductions, those perfectly formed manifestations of the unfathomable power of Sherlock’s brain, and cursed himself for a fool. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s the only thing I knew for certain you liked. Being brilliant.”

“Then carry on. Come on, I’ll take your coat.” John shrugged off his own jacket, hung it on the door of the wardrobe, and tossed Sherlock’s over it. He turned to find Sherlock looming well inside the bubble of John’s personal space, eyes scanning over him incessantly.

“What?” John asked.

“I didn’t get to look at you properly last night. I haven’t had a chance since…”

“Since Moriarty.”

“Let me look.” Sherlock crowded John up against the door, but waited for his nod to grab at John’s jumper and pull it over his head.

Sherlock divested John of his clothes with alarming efficiency. There was nothing coy or teasing in the act, but John found himself half hard from the pleasure of watching Sherlock in single-minded pursuit of a goal and, in fact, of being that goal. 

As soon as John stood bare before him, Sherlock grasped John’s head in both hands, turning it this way and that. John got the uncomfortable feeling Sherlock was examining not his face, but his skull. When Sherlock thumbed over the right of the parietal bone, he frowned. “The report said one of the soldiers struck you with the butt of a rifle.”

“It’s healed.”

“Hm.” Sherlock released John’s head gently before dragging his hands down John’s chest. He paused to squeeze a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes roving over John’s body to assess any response. It wasn’t until Sherlock darted down to fix his teeth on the nipple and bite down that he won a surprised groan from John. He let up the pressure and gave a decisive nod. “Interesting.”

His hands continued their downward trajectory, spreading over John’s hips. Sherlock dropped to a crouch, and John prepared himself for the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth, but instead, Sherlock pressed his face to the crease of John’s thigh and breathed in deeply. Scenting him. John’s cock twitched against his belly and he slumped back against the door. Sherlock looked up with a pleased grin splashed across his face. “Noted.”

Sherlock’s hands dragged along the outside of John’s thighs, stopping briefly to confirm a ticklish bit at the back of John’s left knee. Then he lifted John’s right leg and turned it slightly.

“What’s this?” Sherlock traced his finger along the nearly invisible line of a fading cut on John’s calf.

“From a knife.”

The look in Sherlock’s eyes sharpened from interest to anger. “Moriarty did this?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock set his teeth against John’s calf and bit down, hard enough to send frissons of pain jolting along John’s nerves, but not hard enough to break the skin. John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides even as Sherlock’s grip tightened on his leg. Then the pain disappeared. John felt his cock throbbing, fully hard now, and, to John’s surprise, almost ready to be set off.

Sherlock smoothed his tongue over the cut, set John’s leg back down, then slid his hands down to encircle John’s ankles. “He won’t touch you again. You’re mine.”

“Sherlock.” John tried to reach for him, but Sherlock pressed him back against the wall with a firm hand on his chest.

“No, stay. I want to do this without any distractions.” Sherlock brushed his cheek against the inside of John’s thigh. “I want to take my time with you.”

John tried once more to move and was shoved back. “Stay, I said.”

“Sherlock.” John put the snap of command into his voice.

Sherlock snatched his hands back as if he’d been burned. “I’m sorry.” He jerked away so quickly that he tumbled back on his arse. “I didn’t anticipate—“

“Sherlock, it’s fine.” John dropped to a crouch and caught Sherlock by the shoulders, ducking until he could meet his eyes. “That was good, alright? I didn’t want to finish too soon. But I need to know that you’re going to stop if I ask you to.”

“Yes.” Sherlock collected himself from his untidy sprawl. “The object is for you to enjoy yourself, isn’t it?”

“For both of us to enjoy ourselves, I hope.” He ran his eyes over Sherlock’s tense form. “Come on. I want your clothes off.”

If Sherlock had undressed John quickly, he set a new land speed record taking off his own clothes, seemingly oblivious to John’s rapt attention as more of his naked skin came into view. Sherlock was stood folding his jacket when John lost the ability to keep his hands off for a moment longer. 

He tucked his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed his face to the back of his neck. “I’ve got you all to myself.”

“You have had for weeks,” Sherlock said as he dropped his clothes on the chair.

“This is different. No Empire holding my contract. No household rules. No one to punish me. I can do whatever I like.”

“And what would you like?”

“On the bed, go on.” As Sherlock clambered onto the bed, John gathered supplies and put them on the bedside table, within easy reach. He stopped to admire the sight of Sherlock stretched out on his back, a long, pale line of temptation. “Put your hands on the headboard.”

“Are you going to tie me up?”

“No, you’d hate that.” John sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a challenge. Keep them there as long as you can.”

“Indefinitely.” Sherlock curled his lip in disgust. “Am I meant to keep them there all night? What could possibly prevent me from holding on, aside from boredom?”

“I suppose we’ll see.” John suppressed a grin as he patted Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock grasped the slats of the headboard with a dramatic sigh. 

John climbed into the narrow bed and knelt there, considering what to do first. “Now, do stop me if there’s anything you don’t like.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be certain to—ah!” Sherlock’s flippant commentary cut off in a gasp as John swallowed most of his length in one go. John allowed himself a pleased little chuckle, which reverberated through Sherlock, causing another gasp.

“It’s not fair,” Sherlock bleated, when he’d got his breath back. “You’ve had more practice.”

“How is this unfair?” John licked up Sherlock’s length and enjoyed the resultant shudder.

“If the disparity remains, it will take longer for me to surpass your skill level and impress you.”

John let go of the half-dozen things he might have taken issue with in that statement in favour of soothing Sherlock’s vexation with a kiss. “Well.” John drew back and worked Sherlock with his hand while he pretended to consider. “I’m willing to let you catch up. I can find some other way to amuse myself in the meantime.”

John grabbed a bottle from the bedside table and drizzled lube onto Sherlock cock as he stroked it, enough to dribble down the crease of his arse. John’s fingers chased after, and he pressed his thumb against Sherlock’s hole.

“That,” Sherlock rumbled. “Yes.”

John swiped his thumb through the trail of slick and pressed it in. Sherlock spread his legs wider. When John glanced up, he found Sherlock watching him raptly, and he felt a warm thrill at having captured Sherlock’s focus so completely. He’d do his best to keep it; he certainly had a few tricks in mind. John rubbed his thumb around the rim for a moment, testing the muscle: tight, but not tense. He pressed his thumb in deeper, then drew it out in one smooth motion. He did it again, raptly attentive as his thumb disappeared into Sherlock’s body. “Alright?”

Sherlock tightened his grip on the headboard and nodded. John removed his thumb and wet two more fingers to slide into Sherlock. After dipping inside, he pressed just the pads of his fingers to the outside of the hole and rubbed until Sherlock’s breath became uneven and ragged. Then John dipped back inside to work in and out, alternately sliding and stretching. He looked up to take stock of Sherlock’s responses: the flush that climbed up his cheeks, his breath gone shallow in his chest, his knuckles white where he gripped the headboard, his eyes screwed shut. John stopped. “Sherlock, are you in pain?”

Sherlock shook his head, a perfunctory, abbreviated movement. 

“You’re never this quiet. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m listing the elements chronologically by the birth date of the scientist who discovered them.”

“You…” John blinked. “What?”

“I got the idea when you had a similar problem earlier, not wanting to climax too soon. If I watch you… do that, my ability to participate will shortly be at an end. Therefore, I’m attempting to occupy my attention with rearranging the periodic table.”

“I…” John shook his head. “It’s not that I can’t appreciate the problem you’re facing, but I’m a little insulted you’re not even paying attention.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. His gaze slid from John’s face to his hand before he dragged it up again.

“We can stop if you like,” John offered. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and rested his hand against Sherlock’s thigh. “Take a break. It’s not a race.”

“Continue.” Sherlock hooked one bony foot around John’s back and shoved him forward.

“It’s just, I thought you’d want to record this.” John ghosted his hands across Sherlock’s thighs, then down to smooth over the round swell of his arse. “Keep it in that hard drive of yours so you can replay it.” He brushed the back of his knuckles against Sherlock’s sac, then down slowly to tease against his hole. “Revisit the memory when you’re bored. Or frustrated.”

Sherlock tried to push his hips down against John’s hand, to get more friction, but John moved with him, not wanting to be rushed. 

“John,” he growled.

“There’s a benefit to a slow build, you know.” John hooked a hand under Sherlock’s knee and pushed his leg up, the easier to drizzle slick directly against Sherlock’s hole. He rubbed two fingers against Sherlock’s opening, delving in just the tip of one finger before withdrawing again. “Even when I’m wanking, I like a bit of a warm up before I get to down to business.”

“John,” Sherlock snapped. “If you insist on describing your masturbation habits, I will be forced to go back to the periodic table.”

“You like hearing about me getting myself off,” John realized. His own cock gave an interested twitch when he considered it. “Would you like to watch, sometime?”

“John!” Sherlock pulled at the headboard, rattling it against the wall.

“Alright! Sherlock.” John set down Sherlock’s leg and smoothed a hand down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall. “Sherlock. Breathe. That’s it. Now wiggle your toes.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

The annoyance of an unrelated physical action was enough to prevent Sherlock from climaxing immediately when John pressed three slick fingers into Sherlock and curled them expertly to make him shout and slam his head back onto the pillow. 

“Maybe my memory’s not so good as yours, but I still plan on filing tonight away for future use. The sounds you make…” John withdrew his fingers and worked them in again, just to drag another wordless cry out of Sherlock.

“Please,” Sherlock gasped. “Go on. I can take it.”

“Patience—“

“Is for another day, John. I think you’ll agree I have been sufficiently patient tonight.” Sherlock tried to shove back against John’s hand, and once more was thwarted. He lay back and huffed in frustration. “I am not made of glass. I may not have your wealth of experience, but I’m not entirely unpractised.”

“Alright.” John paused in his ministrations. “When you said—“

“Yes, I haven’t made an extensive study of this particular act, but I’ve engaged in similar… That is to say—“

“Yes, I don’t need a diagram.”

“As I said, I was told it wasn’t…” Sherlock’s eyes strayed to the ceiling. “Many slaves consider this… excessively intimate.”

“Sherlock.” John reached his free hand up to capture Sherlock’s chin and make him meet his eyes. “I. Am not. A slave.”

“I know that, John.” Sherlock abandoned his grip on the headboard to lay his hand against John’s cheek. “I do know that.” He dragged John up to pull him into a kiss. While somehow managing to keep his mouth affixed to John’s, Sherlock poured lube into his hand and grasped John’s cock to slick it. He threw one leg around John to pull him snug against Sherlock’s body. “Now get on with it.”

Sherlock tilted his hips up and guided John unerringly. John had only to shift forward and slide in. He held onto Sherlock’s arms and watched the play of Sherlock’s expression from overwhelmed to determined to impatient. 

Before he could issue demands for more, John reached between them to palm Sherlock’s cock. “You are amazing. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of things to be impressed by, with you around.”

“Show me.”

John eased in further, slowly, looking for any sign of reluctance Sherlock might be too proud to voice, but he found only frantic arousal as Sherlock rolled up against him. “Wait,” John warned. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Yes!”

“Are you certain?”

“I told you yes.” Sherlock writhed under him with no leverage either to thrust into John’s hand or push further onto his cock. “John Watson, if you do not immediately—“ His eyes widened. “You _do_ want revenge! You’re doing this to torture me!”

“I would never—“ John laughed. 

Then he was unceremoniously shoved onto his back. In a trice Sherlock had his arms pinned to his sides and was sitting astride him. “That’s better.” 

Sherlock rose up on his knees and guided John back inside him. He sank down in one smooth motion, and let out a sigh of relief when he had taken it all. “Much better.” He leaned over John, drawing a gasp out of him. “Now, tell me, how do you like it?”

“Any way… is not going to last… very long.”

Sherlock began to rock against John, lifting up a bit more each time, then sliding down to the hilt. “I told you I wanted to know all your secrets. Every thing you like. Every kind of sound you make during climax. Every expression on your face when you’re inside me. I want to learn every way there is to bring you pleasure.”

“Sherlock!” John’s hands clenched on Sherlock’s hips, and he thrust up off the bed, fucking into Sherlock with desperate strength as he reached his end. Sherlock felt solid in his hands, an immovable force that would move for John, if he asked it. The heady freedom of that power burned through John’s blood, wringing out every muscle and pouring out all his energy. He collapsed against the bed and lay panting helplessly. 

Sherlock braced himself over John with one hand while the other sped over his cock. “Of course I want to record this. Every part of you you’ll let me have, I will take. Let me… Let me…” His head snapped back as he gasped for air.

John folded his hand over Sherlock’s stroking with him as his body came back under conscious control. “That’s it. That’s beautiful, Sherlock. Finish it.”

Sherlock squirmed on John’s cock as he screamed out his climax. That long, pale body arched back impossibly as he shot stripes of come against John’s chest, messy and uncontrolled as John had never seen him. He collapsed on top of John, panting.

From next door came a pounding on the wall, and a muffled shout of, “Oi! Keep it down!”

“Piss off!” Sherlock shouted back, though his authority was somewhat undermined by the raspy rattle of his voice. He rolled off John and flopped onto the little remaining empty space on the bed.

“Sherlock, those are my neighbours,” John panted. “I do have to look these people in the eye tomorrow.”

Sherlock tilted his head just enough to display a raised eyebrow. “Do you like them more than me?”

“God no.” John’s nascent laughter bubbled over then, and Sherlock joined in until they wore themselves out and lay regaining their breath.

Sherlock rolled onto his side and propped his head in his hand to stare down at John. “In any event, it is your fault. You deliberately set out to make me scream.”

John couldn’t resist darting up to plant a kiss against Sherlock’s smirk. “And I don’t regret it.”  
\--

 

Lestrade picked up a cup of tea from the café at the end of the road. His breath turned to vapour in the chilly morning air, making a hot beverage a necessity. Then, too, he needed something to do with his hands to keep from checking the time every minute or two. He’d chosen a stakeout position a cautious distance away, at the turning of the street. Though it wasn’t, strictly speaking, proper, he’d wrapped his scarf around his neck to obscure his collar. The neighbours were less likely to confront him if they thought him a free man, and he might have to wait here a long while.

Lord Mycroft’s car didn’t look much different from any other on a street like this, but Lestrade recognized Wood when she stepped out and opened the kerb-side door. Upon getting out of the car, Lord Mycroft moved his gaze around the street, taking in his surroundings. Lestrade ducked around the corner, just to be safe. When he dared to look again, Lord Mycroft had disappeared inside the house, and Wood leant against the bonnet, lighting a cigarette. 

She nodded to him when he approached the house. “Smoke?” she held out her pack. 

“No, I’ve given up.”

“Suit yourself.” She tucked the pack into her coat pocket. 

Lestrade hung his jacket in the foyer, next to Lord Mycroft’s handsome wool herringbone. He padded down the corridor, straining his ears for voices, and nearly ran into Kieran holding a tea tray. 

“I’ll take that, lad,” Lestrade said. Kieran gave him a cautious smile and scurried away. Lestrade drew in a slow breath, let it out, then pushed through the door into the sitting room.

Lord Mycroft sat ensconced in an armchair opposite Jasper, who caught sight of Lestrade first and raised an eyebrow. In response, Lord Mycroft stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly to take in the sight of Lestrade. “Gregory. I understood you’d be out.”

“Yes, I know.” No one said anything else for several seconds. At last, Lestrade set the tray on the sideboard. “If I may, you’re looking fit, sir.” Not exactly true. Lord Mycroft looked thin, starving. He might have said wasting. “Would you like some tea?”

“I should be going.” Lord Mycroft rose from his chair and started towards the door. “There’s some important business in Whitehall that—“

“Please, sir.” Lestrade stepped neatly in front of him, head bowed. “I’d like to speak with you. Alone, if I may.”

“I’ll be going.” Jasper pushed to his feet, shuffled out of the room, and pulled the door firmly closed behind him.

Lord Mycroft cleared his throat and retreated to his chair. “Yes, tea would be lovely.”

Lestrade poured a cup, added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred. The clinking of the spoon against the china sounded strikingly loud in the stillness of the room. Lestrade brought the cup and saucer to Lord Mycroft’s chair, slid to his knees with practiced ease, and offered it up. Lord Mycroft took it gingerly from Lestrade and held it in his lap without drinking. Lestrade settled his hands on his thighs and debated how to begin, now that he had Lord Mycroft here, alone. For so long he’d known how to make himself heard with his master; he’d known his place in the household. Now, every word seemed fraught, every motion heavy with import. 

“Is your position here satisfactory?” Lord Mycroft asked.

“The work is interesting, sir. Jasper’s very good at what he does.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t arrange this, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lestrade said quickly. If this went south, he didn’t want Jasper to face the consequences.

“No. I’m very aware of your independent bent.”

Lestrade should have known his master would see through him. He shifted closer and raised his head enough to check Lord Mycroft’s reactions unobtrusively. “Sir. May I be permitted to ask you a question?”

“Yes.” He sat up straighter in his chair.

“Why did you set yourself up to take the blame for the murder of the Chinese Ambassador? Why were you willing to give up your position?”

Lord Mycroft set his tea on the coffee table and folded his hands in his lap. “We’ve been over this, Gregory.”

“Pardon me, sir, but I’m having trouble grasping the concept.”

Lord Mycroft turned his face away, towards the window. “I told you, I am not a coward.”

“No, I’m certain of that, sir.”

“Then what else is there to say?”

“Sir, did your decision…” Summoning his courage, Lestrade laid his hand on Lord Mycroft’s knee. “Did it have something to do with me?”

Lord Mycroft turned back slowly and met Lestrade’s questioning gaze. “I believe you know the answer to that.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Well, if that’s all.” Lord Mycroft rose quickly, smoothed down his tie, and strode towards the door. “I’m afraid I must—“

“Lord Mycroft. Sir,” Lestrade called. 

Lord Mycroft kept walking. 

“Mycroft.” 

He halted with his hand on the doorknob. 

Lestrade braved the few steps between them and laid his hands against Mycroft’s back. He could feel the heat of his master’s body through his jacket. “I’d like to serve you again.”

“You’re serving me here.”

“As your personal slave.” Lestrade felt Mycroft shudder under his hands.

“I trust you understand that the possibility of your return is more than appealing to me.” Mycroft turned to face Lestrade once more. “However, the reasons for your decision to resign remain.”

“Yes.” Lestrade bowed his head. “I’ve had time to think about the situation. I have one request to make that would allow me to return to my post in good conscience.”

A breath swelled in Mycroft’s chest, then he seemed to catch himself, and frowned. “I cannot do for you what I did for John. You must understand, the Imperial justice system— “

“I understand. I know the law.”

“I’ll do what I can to give you independence. I can give you papers to function as my agent. You could live independently, work. Meet whom you liked. I wouldn’t interfere. You needn’t even wear a collar.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”

“Of course.” Mycroft swept past Lestrade to pace the length of the room. “You want true freedom, not the illusion. In time, influence correctly applied might enable me to--”

“No. No, Mycroft.” Lestrade stepped in front of Mycroft to stop him, and this time made so bold as to take his hands. “If you care about me, if you really do—“

“I do,” Mycroft broke in. “I’m willing to provide any proof you require.”

“Then you have to accept that what I am in the world isn’t going away.” Lestrade set his feet and braced himself to say what was necessary. “I believe that you care about me beyond what I think is entirely justified. I don’t need any more evidence of that. But I’m not alone in enduring the kind of treatment that upsets you. If I were free, somehow, you wouldn’t see it anymore. Not the way you do now. So that’s my condition for coming back. You won’t pull anything fancy to have me freed; you have to live with me in this station, as I am.”

“I….” Mycroft looked pale. He opened his mouth only to shut it again.

“Is that an acceptable request, sir?”

“Ask something else, instead.” His voice had barely enough power behind it to reach Lestrade’s ears. “Please.”

“I can’t. This is the one thing I can’t live with, Mycroft.” He’d had long enough to consider what he wanted to understand that nothing else could fix what lay between them. “No one else can be hurt because of me. Because you’re not content with the way things stand between us.”

“I have never been discontent with you.” Mycroft closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, his penetrating gaze, the one that saw more than it should, focused on Lestrade. “I accept your condition.”

“I need your word.”

“Then you have it.”

“Promise me,” Lestrade said, drifting closer.

“I promise.”

“Once more.”

“I swear, Gregory.” Mycroft took hold of Lestrade’s shoulders and drew him near. “I’ll do as you ask.”

“Then it’s settled.” Lestrade leaned in, almost close enough to touch. “May I…?”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed.

Lestrade kissed him. His body remembered this well, and relaxed into Mycroft’s familiar hold. The tension he’d been holding for weeks melted away as he leaned against the solid weight of his master. Mycroft’s hands slid up his arms and brushed Lestrade’s collar. Lestrade drew back quickly to find Mycroft looking down.

“It’s strange to see you without my collar.” 

Lestrade rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “This one doesn’t fit me as well, anyway.” He frowned, realizing he didn’t know what had happened to his proper collar. “Is it…?”

“It’s in my office at home.” A hint of a blush rose in Mycroft’s cheeks. “I confess… I’ve taken to keeping it near while I work. I find it… consoling.”

“Then take me home.” Lestrade delivered one more brief kiss. “Please.”

Mycroft nodded. He smoothed his hands down his jacket, and Lestrade reached up to straighten his tie, which had been pushed askew. Mycroft pulled open the door and strode out, composed and straight-backed once more. Lestrade followed the man he had chosen.  
\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! There will be a brief epilogue up in a day or two, but this represents the end of this story arc. Thank you for your patience over the three years (!) I've been writing this story. It wouldn't have happened without your encouragement!


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT NOTE!** Part Five represents the end of the main story arc for this AU. This epilogue functions more as a prologue to another small story arc, which will carry on from here eventually, but which I do not intend to start until 6-12 months from now. If you’re the type that reads those teaser chapters George R.R. Martin puts at the end of his books, then maybe go ahead and read this. If not, probably you want to skip this and stop at the end of the previous part, instead!

_Four months later_

* * *

John tried to ease out of his bed unobserved, but he should have known better than to think he could sneak past Sherlock. One bony arm dropped around his middle and hauled him back into the warm tangle of sheets.

“Let go.” John tugged half-heartedly at the hand clamped over his belly. “Come on, some of us aren’t pampered lords who can lie around in bed all day.”

“You’re not scheduled to work.” Sherlock’s sleep-rough voice rumbled against John’s back.

“Leaving aside how you know that—“

“There’s no need for you to work.” Sherlock threw a leg over John and tugged him in closer. “You know I’d keep you.”

“Keep me.” Tension stiffened John’s muscles. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sherlock must have noticed John’s shift, because he eased his hold a little. “There’s no need to be offended.”

“I told Lestrade I’d go with him today.” John extracted one arm to grab for the clock and turn it towards him. “I’ll be late.”

“Oh. Boring. Don’t go.”

“Are you going to forbid me, _sir_?”

“No. John, no.” Sherlock released him immediately and drew away so just the barest touch of his fingers rested against John’s back.

John rolled off the bed and bent down to press a kiss against Sherlock’s frown. “Good.” He stretched to loosen the inevitable kinks in his back from sharing a too-small bed with a long-limbed Holmes. “I shouldn’t be all day. Greg says he can only stand a few hours at these things.” John pawed through his chest of drawers to pull out some presentable clothes, then looked for a place to put them down that wasn’t covered with bits and bobs Sherlock had dragged in. “We’ll likely go out for a bite after. I have a few errands to run, should be back by supper. Will you still be here?”

“John.” Sherlock sat up with the sheet pulled around his shoulders, making him look unusually young. His eyes slid around the room, landing everywhere but on John.

“What?” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and drew the sheet more tightly around him. If John didn’t know better, he would have sworn Sherlock was nervous. At last, Sherlock said, “It’s terribly inconvenient to leave my flat for long periods of time. I have experiments there that need constant tending. All of my personal effects are there.”

“Except the ones cluttering up every surface in this room.”

“I have a kitchen that doesn’t consist solely of a hotplate. I have my own loo.”

“In which you occasionally store body parts.” John wasn’t likely to forget or forgive that incident in Sherlock’s bathtub anytime soon.

“My flat is much more convenient to Scotland Yard.” Sherlock threw his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. “The neighbourhood is vastly superior.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Lambeth. In fact--”

“You should live at my flat,” Sherlock blurted out. Then he shut his mouth with a click of teeth and fixed his eyes on John.

“Your flat.” John stopped fussing with his clothes and turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Where a madmen held me captive?”

“It’s suffered a security upgrade since then.” Sherlock leant forward, elbows on his knees. “You’d have your own room. You can contribute to the rent, if you like. I’m willing to agree to a reasonable number of stipulations about living conditions.”

John refolded his clothes while that thought percolated. “No violin playing between the hours of midnight and eight AM.”

“Those are prime hours for brain work!”

“And for sleeping,” John pointed out as he gathered his kit for the toilet.

“You like my violin playing.” Sherlock jumped up and trailed after John with the sheet tangled around his waist.

“And I’m happy to hear it within reasonable hours.” John hid his smile in a stoop to dig his shampoo out from under the wardrobe.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Anything else?”

“I get to choose what we watch on the telly.”

“Fine.” Sherlock herded him into the corner, the better to loom over him. “Is that all?”

“Oh, no.” John shook his head, mock-serious. He was starting to warm to the idea. “I’ll need to think about it. Make a list.”

“That means you’ve agreed to move in.” Sherlock swept away from John to fling himself facedown on the bed.

“Sherlock, you know this doesn’t mean…” John turned to watch him: the sprawling lines of his body claiming all of the available space. “It’ll be like a flatshare, yeah? I’ll pay my way.”

“Fine.” Sherlock curled further in towards the wall. “I understand.”

“Thank you.” John couldn’t resist swooping down to drop a kiss against Sherlock’s bared shoulder. “Right. I do have to get going.” He snatched a towel off the chair and headed for the shower. “I told Lestrade we’d get there when they open.”  
\--

 

Lestrade drew his coat more closely around him to ward off the chill. The bridge over Regent’s Canal seemed perfectly situated to catch every draught that chased between the buildings. One woman in front of him in the queue turned her back to the lock to get her face out of the wind. Lestrade ventured a glance at her neck, but saw no collar. He quickly dragged his eyes away when she looked at him, and held perfectly still for several seconds until he felt her attention leave him. 

When he turned the other way, he caught sight of John trundling his way past the growing queue with two cups of take-away coffee in hand, bless him.

“You look entirely too chipper for this time of the morning.” John handed him one of the cups. “Did you take the train in?”

“Thanks.” Lestrade immediately wrapped his hands around the cup, enjoying the warmth seeping through his gloves, almost as much as the relief of having some company. “No. We’ve been staying in town this week.”

“Convenient.”

“Lord Mycroft stays here during the week more often, now that Lord Sherlock’s out from underfoot at the house.” Though he hadn’t mentioned it, Lestrade had been selfishly enjoying the chance to spend time with Mycroft in a more intimate setting, with fewer staff around to necessitate maintaining proper appearances. “Speaking of which, he’s not underfoot too much at yours, is he?”

John took a gulp of his coffee. “I’d tell him, if he were.”

The queue began to move. Lestrade dug his documents out of his coat pocket and passed them to John. The man at the gate scanned the barcode on the papers, glanced briefly at John, and waved them on. The people ahead of them had already begun to disappear down the myriad passageways that made up the market.

Lestrade knew the winding corridors well enough by now to point John in the right direction, though he tried to stay a step behind, for the sake of appearance. “I appreciate this, John. I really do.” 

“Don’t know as I’ll be much help. I’m no expert.”

“Trust me, standing next to anyone without a collar is far preferable to walking around here as an unaccompanied slave.” Lestrade steered them away from the main gate to shelter from the flow of the crowd behind an oversized status of a horse’s head. “Plus, you’re a doctor. I trust your opinion.”

“Thanks, I suppose.” John tugged his scarf tighter around his neck—no concern over the impropriety of covering up a collar for him, not anymore. “God it’s freezing out here. Do they keep them outside?”

“Not the valuable ones.” In fact, many of the vendors arranged very civilized, inviting displays of their wares. But more usually, Lestrade’s shopping took him to the lower levels, the discount goods. “Jasper gave me a list of a few he wants me to check out. And I’d planned to do some browsing, besides.” 

“Uh huh.” John stared across the aisle, where a vendor was just opening the door to a booth populated by a half-dozen young women in elegant gold collars and sleek black dresses artfully posed on minimalist furniture.

“Listen, John, these things can get to be… overwhelming.” Lestrade had managed to stay the whole morning the first time Jasper had brought him along, but he’d felt on edge for days afterwards. “If you want to leave, or take a break, you go ahead, yeah?”

“Yeah.” John’s attention slid down the way, taking in the profusion of vendors, then returned to Lestrade. “I will.”

Lestrade led them in a circuitous route through the upper level, then down a ramp and a staircase to a wide-open room where harsh fluorescent light soaked into the dark wood of old horse stalls pressed into service as slave pens. He stopped to glance down at Jasper’s list, looking for a booth number, and when he raised his eyes, he was alone in the crowd. 

Lestrade fought down the immediate stab of panic at being by himself in the midst of an open market and made himself take a slow breath. No one would touch him. His collar proclaimed his owner’s identity. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. The pounding of his heart slowed, and he managed another even breath. Equilibrium recovered, he scanned the crowd for John and caught sight of his dark green jacket twenty feet down the aisle. Lestrade let the crowd carry him closer to the pen by which John had stopped. 

“John?”

He didn’t turn, so Lestrade weaved his way closer, careful not to jostle any of the other buyers.

“John, what is it?” Lestrade risked laying a hand on his back. “John?”

John took a step back, knocking into Lestrade, who grabbed John’s arm to steady himself. John said nothing, so Lestrade followed his gaze.

A man in filthy work clothes with a dented metal collar and a matted beard stood clutching the bars of the stall, staring at John. It took Lestrade several moments to recognize the bedraggled slave as Colonel Sebastian Moran.


End file.
